


Too Good To Be True (Can't Take My Eyes Off of You)

by Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox



Series: Another Dime In the Jukebox (Play It Again) [1]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: (for eo at least bc my boy is pure and good and such a nerd), Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, Fluff, Hero Worship, Love at First Sight, M/M, Prequel, Professors, Time Travel, lordy how do i even tag this, the married AU prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2018-08-11 12:37:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 53,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7892560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox/pseuds/Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do you remember when we first met? Not as the Flash and the Reverse, but when we met? Back when we were both young, and I still had the body I was born with.”</p><p>Boy meets boy. They fall in love.<br/>But it's never that simple.</p><p>The Married AU prequel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Some Enchanted Evening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > Some Enchanted Evening  
> When you find your true love  
> When you feel him call you across a crowded room  
> then fly to his side  
> and make him your own
>>
>>> _2024_

_The Original Timeline._

Barry ran. 

And he ran.

And he ran.

And he ran.

“Cisco,” he rasped, sweat dripping down his face. “I don’t think—I don’t think I can go fast enough.”

“Barry,” Cisco said, barely hiding the terror in his voice. “I don’t think you have a choice.”

He didn’t. Not really. If he didn’t run, he would die. Everyone in the city would die. “Cisco,” he said, feeling the lightning buzz in his veins like it had never done before. “If I don’t—Cisco, tell my mom—” He couldn’t speak anymore. It hurt. It was like he was back in freshman gym class, trying to ignore the way his throat and lungs felt like they had been scratched vigorously with a cheese grater. He had always wondered if would start coughing up blood. Now, he hoped his internal organs didn’t rupture.

“I’ll tell her, Barry. Promise.”

He closed his eyes, and felt the speed force inside of him.

He ran.

It felt like the very world around him blurred; everything else suddenly moved to slow. Gravity, drag, friction, even time itself—everything slowed down. His breath caught in his throat. He pushed forwards.

* * *

  

The first time Eobard Thawne met Barry Allen, he was outside of the science building of Central City University. He had just finished his lecture. The sun was high in the sky, and there wasn’t a cloud in sight. It was blinding, at first, the sun too bright for his eyes that were used to the dull, windowless lecture hall. 

He hated admin for keeping him in that lecture hall. He was pretty sure that he had done something to piss off the administration’s fearless organizer, Lisa, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to know what. It was probably when he turned down her offer for a date at the university’s Christmas party. Or maybe it was because he then proceeded to tipsily proclaim his undying love for…notable 21st century historical figures.

Yeah. The guys in the physics department still hadn’t let that one go, either. Nor had Professor Pennyworth from history, but Eobard was fairly certain he was just bitter that Eobard had beaten him on early 21st century trivia. 

Yeah. Definitely just bitter that Eobard had won the trivia tournament.

Still, it wasn’t Eobard’s fault that chronology was better than history in every way. There was no need for Alfred to get so huffy about it. 

The sun glinted off of the chrome of the sidewalk. Another personal attack against him, Eobard was certain. He diverted his gaze into the grass, and—oh.

There was a man lying in the grass. 

He was. He was beautiful.

He had hair like polished bronze, glinting in the sunlight. His skin was alabaster, or porcelain or marble: a greek statue, the perfect incarnation of man. He smiled, with rose-petal lips, laughing. 

Eobard wanted to marry this man. He knew it just from looking at him, just from seeing him once. He wanted—he wanted—

He let himself fantasize. He could see them both, in some home in the suburbs, or in a high rise apartment, or even the Thawne family home that he hadn’t stepped a foot in since his mother died. He could see a million different possibilities; maybe this man was a professor here, too, or a TA, or—god forbid—a student. Maybe they’d be friends first, maybe they’d try to keep it quiet. Or maybe they’d jump straight to flirting, maybe they’d be that one couple that was so obnoxious with their displays of affection. 

God. It had been ages since Eobard had a crush like this. Since he had a crush at all, really. He hardly knew what to do. 

Still, he stumbled over towards the man with slightly uncooperative legs, certain above all other things that he couldn’t let this man disappear without at least knowing his name. 

…The man was much more distracting up close. Eobard could see the grass that clung to the man’s hair, could see the way he looked up through his eyelashes. God, the way he looked up through his eyelashes.

_My name is Eobard Thawne,_ he tried to say. His tongue felt stuck in his mouth, his lips suddenly felt superglued together. His hands were sweating. _My name is Eobard Thawne._

The man sat up, and arched an eyebrow. “Are you going to say anything, or are you just going to stand there?” He laughed. It was not an unkind laugh, instead it was as if Eobard had been let in on a secret. Trusted. 

Eobard’s heart rate sped up tenfold. “Ah—I—Eobard. Eobard Thawne. Chronology department.”

“Barry Allen. Chemistry.” Barry’s nose crinkled when he smiled. Lord. “Nice to meet you.”

A silence passed, as Barry stared at him somewhat expectantly. Right. Talking. Talking was a thing. A thing he definitely knew how to do. “Barry Allen,” he said, stalling for time. He’d heard that name before, hadn’t he? He was fairly certain he had. “You’re…the new hire in the chemistry department, I remember now.” He coughed. “I’ve heard wonderful things about you.”

“I’ve heard about you, too.” Barry smiled. “Your work in theoretical chronology is groundbreaking.” He knew of Eobard’s work. Oh god. “I was just reading a paper of yours the other day, on the potential consequences of crossing your own timeline? Way cool.” 

Eobard. Eobard wasn’t quite certain if he was still alive. The likelihood of him being dead and this being heaven jumped to about 98.5%. At the very least, this could be some sort of dream. Or maybe a hallucination? Maybe both. “Well, I mean, there’s more to chronology than just theories on time travel,” he said out of habit, and watched in horror as Barry’s face fell. “I mean—that doesn’t make it not one of the more interesting parts of chronology of course, but there’s more to it than just time travel. I, ah—perhaps I could elaborate further, some time?” Nice save, Thawne.

“I think I’d like that.” 

Eobard wasn’t sure if he had ever been this much of a mess over anyone he had just met. Anyone at all, really. “Maybe over dinner?” 

Barry smiled. It was a pretty smile. “I’d like that, too.”

“I would, too.” Eobard smiled, the awkward sort of smile his mother once said made him look like a shark. He fought the urge to fidget, his fingers toying with the seam of his pants. What day, what day, what day. Not tonight, that was too soon. Tomorrow would still be to early. “Friday? At six?” He had something Friday, didn’t he. Whatever. It didn’t matter. He could reschedule. 

“I’m free,” Barry said, coy and playful. 

Flirting. Right. He could do flirting. “There’s this place by the river,” he ventured. “It does nice crepes.”

“I love crepes.” Barry pulled out—was that paper? Who used paper anymore? Maybe it was some sort of new trend? “Here’s my contact info. See you then?” He handed the paper to Eobard.

It was warm. Barry’s handwriting was appalling, but that was alright. “See you then.”

* * *

 

 

He had known he had something on Friday. He had known. How the hell his mind had not computed that Friday was the same Friday as _the Friday,_ Eobard would never know.

Still, he had somehow managed to schedule dinner with Barry on the same night that _The_ _Flash and The Reverse_ came out. He had been looking forward to this for months. Years, even; since the last Flash movie came out.

There was nothing to be done. Either he rescheduled the Flash, after pre ordering his ticket, or he swallowed his pride. 

He pulled the crumpled up piece of paper from his coat pocket, and typed in the number written there. 

“Barry?” He said. “I know, I asked you out to dinner, but I was wondering if maybe you’d like to see a movie instead?”

* * *

The theater Eobard chose was practically a historical landmark; it was one of the only places in Central City that did 2D showings of films instead of the usual holograms. That was cool, right? It was Indie. It definitely had nothing to do with his 21st century obsession.

He breathed, and checked his watch. Still twenty minutes early. Barry probably wouldn’t show up for another fifteen minutes, and after that he would only have to remain cool and nonchalant for five. He could do this. He could be chill. He was only here to see a movie he had heard was good, after all. Nothing else. He hadn’t been waiting for two years for it to come out. He hadn’t speculated on the plot on various internet forums. He was just a guy, seeing a movie with a date.

He could do this. (He couldn’t do this.)

“Eobard!Hi.” 

Well, it looked like he had to do this. “Barry,” he said, turning to face him. As always, he was beautiful. His hands were stuffed haphazardly into the pocket of his sweater, a lazy grin spread across his face.

“I almost didn’t see you.” Barry laughed. “Can you believe how packed it is? I wonder what’s going on.”

He hadn’t seen the Flash cosplayers, then. Well, that was something. “It’s the premier of a new superhero movie, tonight, I suppose,” he said. “Did you ever have a favorite superhero growing up?” He tried to remain nonchalant. 

Barry froze. “Oh, uh,” he said, “I guess…I always liked the Green Arrow?”

The _Green Arrow?_ Oh no. Anyone but him. It could have been anyone. It didn’t even have to be the Flash. Obviously it would be best if Barry liked the Flash, but anyone would have done. Anyone except _Oliver Queen._

Honestly! What kind of superhero was so bad they couldn’t even keep their identity a secret? One that was no good in the first place. The Green Arrow was a vigilante. He tortured people. Sure, he was technically the first superhero, but if someone wasn’t not a real hero, then did they really deserve the title of the first superhero?

Still. He could always convert Barry to the right side of things. There was time. Obviously Barry was smart enough to see the light.Eobard wouldn’t have liked him as much as he did if Barry wasn’t. 

“Hey, do you think we should go sit down?”

Eobard blinked, dragged out of his internal monologue.“What?”

“For the movie? Shouldn’t we go get good seats?” Barry sent him a cock-eyed grin. “What are we even seeing, anyway?” 

Okay. He could do this. Moment of truth. “Ah, a friend told me it was going to be good? It’s called, um, The Flash vs. The Reverse Flash. Or something.”

* * *

 

Eobard Thawne loved the Flash. This became increasingly more and more obvious.It was fine during the movie; Barry originally believed him when he pretended to have stumbled across the film on accident. Then, he thought that maybe Eobard just got that invested in all movies he watched. Some people were just that expressive. Iris was, when she watched movies. 

But nobody got that into a movie that was at best mediocre. Of course, Barry was kind of biased; it was really, _really_ weird to watch someone pretend to be himself. Still, even Barry could tell a good movie from a terrible one, once he got over the fact that the actor was supposed to be portraying him. 

Eobard, however, apparently wasn’t. “One of the best Flash films yet, don’t you think?” He gestured animatedly as they walked out of the theatre. “Did you see what they did with the special effects? Oh my god. I thought that most studios didn’t work as hard on their 2D effects but these were so good. And this Flash! I love his actor. The best Flash portrayal yet, am I right?” He said, holding open the door and smiling. “What’d you think about it?”

“Oh, uh.” The plot was terrible, everybody called him The Flash, even his mom, and they made Iris _white._ “…The aesthetics were really nice.”

“My thoughts exactly! They really stepped up the filmography this time around, don’t you think? All that lens flare, so vintage.” He beamed. “It was just like those old Star Trek movies.”

Except, you know, Barry liked those Star Trek movies. “Yeah, uh, really vintage.”

“Hey, I was wondering if maybe you wanted to get milkshakes, now that it’s over? We could talk about the movie, andI could make up for not taking you to dinner?” He smiled.

Barry shouldn’t. He knew that he shouldn’t. He and Iris came up with a cardinal rule ages ago: never date a fan. It would be weird.

But…Eobard was smiling at him like he couldn’t be happier in the world, and he was the closest thing to a friend Barry had in this time period. “Sure, milkshakes sound great.”

“Come on,” he said, taking Barry’s hand. It was like a jolt of electricity when they did, something dangerous—but pleasant. 

Barry smiled.

* * *

They got milkshakes that were more ice-cream than milkshake, and served in a place that seemed to shove every aspect of the nineteen hundreds together at once in the decor. A jukebox stood next to a lava lamp. Their waitress wore a crop top with her poodle skirt. The man at the counter wore a waistcoat and jeans. _The Twentieth Century Cafe_ was emblazoned on the wall over the bar, in art deco lettering.

“They, uh, aren’t exactly big in historical accuracy here, are they?”

“No, not really,” Eobard said. “I didn’t know you were into history. I’m a bit of a twenty-first century buff, myself. The century of superheroes.” 

“Yeah, I could tell.” Barry laughed. “You really like the Flash, don’t you?”

“Of course,” Eobard said, gesturing with the straw of his milkshake. “I mean. Everyone has to have a childhood hero, don’t they?” he shrugged, staring at the table. “The Flash, well, he’s always been that for me. It’s hard to disappoint someone when they lived four hundred years ago.” He glanced up. “I’m sorry. Too much?”

_Yes_ , Barry wanted to say. He didn’t want to hear about how much Eobard Thawne had idolized him. He didn’t want to hear how much Eobard still idolized him.

“It’s just…We all need heroes, Barry. Now more than ever.” He sighed, turning his head to stare at the frosted glass windows. 

_Now more than ever._ Barry twirled his straw in his glass. The world needed heroes, and then Barry showed up. What were the chances? 

Unless it was fate.

He still had his Flash suit, after all. He had been wearing it when he woke up here, dazed and weak after being transported from 2024. 

If he wanted, he could be the Flash again. There had to be some sort of reason why he was here. Maybe—maybe this was it.

 

 


	2. I'm A Believer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > I thought love was only true in fairytales  
> Meant for someone else, but not for me  
> her love was out to get me  
> that's the way it seemed  
> disappointment haunted all my dreams
>> 
>> But then I saw her face!  
> Now I'm a believer  
> Without a trace  
> of doubt in my mind  
> I'm in love
>>
>>>  

“I’m just saying Eobard, don’t you think this is progressing a little fast?”

“It’s not going too fast, Tina, we’ve been on one date.” He rolled his eyes. “ _One_. I know that’s more than you’ve been on in the past three years, but—”

“It’s more than you’ve been on in the past three years, too,” she said, staring at him in the same way that she did when they were kids. The way that made him think she knew everything. “Two weeks ago, you would’ve ignored anyone except the Flash. Now this boy comes along, and suddenly you’re making grand declarations of love? I just don’t know if that’s good for you.”

“It’s not grand declarations of love—” 

“What happened to those friends of yours, anyway. That Rathaway fellow. What about him.”

“It’s Rathaway-Ramon, and he’s _married,_ Tina. It’s not an open relationship.” He rolled his eyes. Why they even had these calls were beyond him.

She sniffed. “Ah well. There’s no accounting for taste.”

“Goodbye, Tina.”

“I’m just saying, I haven’t seen this excited about someone since we took you to the Flash museum for your tenth birthday.”

“You’d think you’d be happy about that,” he said. “Considering how you’ve tried to get me interested in anyone _other_ than the flash in all of the years since.”

“I’m your older sister, Eobard. I worry about you.” She sighed. “Why can’t you see that?”

“There’s no need to be worried, Tina,” he intoned. “Now if you don’t mind, I have a class to teach. _Goodbye_.”

The hologram flickered out, but he could still swear that he felt her eyes on him. That was the problem with Tina. Nothing was ever good enough.

He sighed, and took off his glasses. He didn’t really need them, they were just for aesthetic purposes. He had gotten corrective surgery at a very young age, of course. Nothing else would befit a member of the Thawne family. That’s what Tina always said, of course. Their father, too. 

There was a reason why Gideon had always been his favorite. But Gideon—well. It wasn’t like he could talk to her. 

He called Barry. Was it probably not the right thing to do when he just finished listening to Tina say that Barry was a bad influence? Probably. But since when did Tina ever know anything, anyway?

As always, it felt like a jolt of lightning, or maybe a punch to the stomach, to see Barry Allen’s face. “Barry,” he said, and he could feel most of the tension leave his body. Barry knew that he loved the Flash, after all, and he didn’t run screaming to the hills. Everybody else, at the very least, thought it was strange. But Barry—well. It almost seemed like Barry understood. “How are you?”

Barry smiled at him, looking up from whatever experiment he had been working on. “I’m great.”

* * *

 

“Your sister sucks.” Cisco rolled his eyes. “You’ve finally started dating again, shouldn’t she be happy?”

“That’s what I thought.” Eobard shrugged. “But Tina’s always been like that.”

“Y’know, speaking of your sisters, when are Hart and I ever gonna meet the cool one?”

“Gideon’s on a five year mission in deep space, Cisco. She left a month ago.”

“Wait—is that why you were so upset on your birthday?” Cisco scooted closer, bumping into Eobard’s shoulder. “Dude, I thought you just hated A Voyage Home! Which is a sin, by the way. Classic Trek is where it’s at,” he said. “Wait, deep space? They don’t even have communications out there, oh my god.”

“Yeah,” Eobard said, the silence in the air almost deafening. 

“…Damn,” Cisco said, shifting uncomfortably. “Still, she’d probably approve of him! Who cares what Tina thinks, anyway? You’ve been out with this guy how many times since you talked to her?”

Eobard smiled, a tiny thing. “Three.” 

“And in any of those times, did you think that he wasn’t into you as much as you were into him?”

“No.” Eobard’s smile grew, almost imperceptibly.

“What’s this guy’s name, anyway, by the way? You never told me,” he said offhandedly, unwrapping a lollipop.

“He’s the new guy in the Chemistry department. Barry Allen.”

Cisco’s lollipop shattered when it hit the ground. 

“Are you okay?”Eobard frowned. “Do you know him, or something?”  
“Uh, yeah, or something,” he muttered. “Anyway, I should go. Hart says he’s up for Dungeons and Dragons, by the way.”

“It’s called Magic and Heroes, Ramon, you know this.” He rolled his eyes. “When are you going to tell me what Dungeons and Dragons even is?”

“Never!” He laughed.

* * *

Eobard took him out to the park. They had a picnic. Barry couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a picnic. It was before this century, at least.

But the sun was shining down on them with early summer heat, and the air was heavy with the scent of wildflowers and sunscreen. Eobard lay next to him, and the sunlight glinted off of his golden hair, while he murmured quietly. His voice was nice, Barry noted drowsily. Warm and soft and enthralling. This was… nice. He was nice. Everything here was nice.

“My sister used to come here with me all the time, when I was younger,” Eobard mumbled, staring at the clouds. “Or rather, I dragged her out here.”

Barry turned on his side, and stared at him. The sun struck Eobard in a way that almost made him look like he was glimmering. He, especially, was nice. Maybe even… the best thing that’d happened to Barry in this century. “Yeah? Why?”

“It was our favorite place, as kids.” He shrugged. “I liked it because the Flash museum was right next to it,”  
Something cold coiled in Barry’s stomach. He resisted the urge to fidget, to avert his eyes. Whenever Eo brought up the Flash, it was like there was an itch he couldn’t scratch. Some unspoken fear climbed out from the back of his mind.

“And Gideon liked it because we could stargaze.” Eobard lolled his head back, humming tunelessly.

“Gideon—your sister?”

“Yeah. Older by three years. Well—cousin, actually,” he said, “but she’s always been like a sister to me.”

Unbidden, Barry’s mind Flashed to Iris. “Yeah. I…I get what you mean.”

* * *

 

The building next to his apartment was on fire. Flames jumped from every surface. Barry’s heart jumped in his chest, faster than a hummingbird. A little girl with fearful eyes stood on her windowsill, glancing between the flames behind her and the several story drop below. Somebody was screaming, in the room above her. The girl didn’t. She lifted a foot over the edge of the sill, then moved it back almost as fast. She faltered, and moved her gaze upward. She stared straight through Barry’s window, right at his face. On her cheek, she wore a red bandaid, with lightning bolts on it. Superhero themed, he noted somewhere in the back of his mind. Like pirates, or princesses. 

She stared at him. It wasn’t a choice at all, to go save her. That would imply that he could let all the people there die. He’d never be able to do that. 

Barry Allen put on his Flash suit, and ran to the rescue.

* * *

 

The projector set Eobard had was a relatively old one, but it still worked just fine. Sure, its holograms glitched on occasion, and weren’t always perfectly defined, but it wasn’t like he couldn’t watch the news without problems. 

“It appears as though there is some sort of force retrieving survivors from the massive fire at one of the apartment complexes on thirty-fourth street—” A news anchor said, and Eobard’s heart stopped. Barry lived on thirty-fourth. Eobards hands started shaking. He stared at the hologram in terror, transfixed.

The hologram shifted, to show the wreckage. But—no, that wasn’t Barry’s building. He could breathe again. A weight had suddenly been lifted. 

Then—A red blur appeared with a woman, and disappeared back into the building again.

“I can’t believe this!” The news anchor said, “it’s almost as if the Flash is back in Central City again!”

Something else squeezed at Eobard’s heart, different from the terror. Something high and hopeful wound itself into the pit of his stomach, some long forgotten dream began to become true. _The Flash._

When he was younger, he liked to think—liked to fantasize—of the Flash, coming and saving him from the monotony of life. He liked to imagine that the Flash disappeared so he could come and find Eobard. That he’d appear, in a fit of heroics, to come and claim Eobard as his, as the only one who was worthy. 

He hadn’t had that dream since he met Barry. And now—The blur pulled the last tenant from the building, all unharmed. This time, however, instead of darting back into the building, the stranger stopped, for a second. The camera zoomed in almost immediately. 

Eobard’s heart jumped to his throat. There, in all of his glory, standing in the same red suit from every comic book Eobard had ever read, highlighted by golden sunlight, was the Flash. 


	3. Smoke Gets In Your Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh when your heart's on fire  
> You must realize  
> Smoke gets in your eyes

 

“Can you believe it, Barry?” Eobard said, his eyes wide and faraway. “The Flash. The real, live Flash. Here! In the same time as us!”

“Oh, yeah, that’s cool,” Barry mumbled, spinning his straw around his milkshake. 

“I just—god. I can’t believe it!” Eo chattered on, a beaming smile never leaving his face. “God—living in the same time period as the Flash. It’s like all of my childhood dreams came to true.”

He fidgeted uncomfortably, then felt guilty. Eobard was so happy, like this. Barry shouldn’t begrudge him that. But—he did. And he felt awful, but all he wanted to do was tell him that the Flash wasn’t perfect, that the Flash was human.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been happier in my life.” Eobard beamed, intertwining his and Barry’s fingers.

“I’m glad,” Barry lied, and tried not to think about it.

* * *

 

“I promise, Barry, the Flash Museum is great.” Eo reassured, dragging Barry inside the chrome white building that was dedicated to him. “It’s got historical value, too! And it’s fitting, considering.”

Considering that the Flash is back, considering that Barry made that much of a mistake, to let himself be seen. Considering that Eobard was in love with a hero who wasn’t even real, not in the way Eo thought he was. Barry Allen was the Flash, but the Flash wasn’t him. He’d never be him. The Flash, at least the way Eo saw him, was an idea, not a person. “Fine, if you want.” He shrugged, and tangled together their fingers. 

“Great,” Eobard said, smiling as if nothing was wrong. “We should so check out the known associates exhibit, I hear they managed to get the Pied Piper’s gauntlets on loan from the Smithsonian.” He practically pulled Barry up the steps to the museum. “But you’ve never been here before, so we should probably start from the beginning.” 

“No, it’s alright—”

“No, really, we should! The history of the Flash, according to the biography. It’ll be fun, I promise.” 

Barry knew the history of the Flash already. Quite intimately. But—Eo was staring at him with the biggest smile on his face, and—how could Barry say no to that? “Alright, if you think so.”

“You won’t be disappointed,” Eobard said, and dragged him off into the museum. 

The first room involved a short film of the Flash’s accomplishments, using real news clips of the Flash. That in itself was bearable, and wasn’t any worse from when Barry caught the news at home. But then: _“The Flash was brave, selfless, and true,”_ echoed throughout the room and Barry’s breath caught in his throat. That was _Iris’s_ voice. “ _Whatever he did, he did for others.”_ The camera panned over a picture of the Flash in motion. That one had been near the beginning of his career, he remembered. The photographer had won a Pulitzer. _“This, I think, is what made him a true American hero.”_

The camera flickered to a drawing of the Flash’s cowl. The voice over changed back to the first one, the man who sounded weirdly like Morgan Freeman.“Still, this superhero’s greatest mystery isn’t how he got his powers, or why, unlike so many others, he decided to use them for good, or even where he went after his disappearance from Central City. Instead the mystery is the mere fact of his identity: who could be so noble, so good as to do all that he has done, without any recognition? Could there ever be someone like him again? Will he, like Central City’s own King Arthur, return?”

The screen faded to black. Eo glanced over at him from where he had been watching raptly, the grin still fixed on his face. “See? Isn’t it cool? I told you it’d be cool.”

“I—” he swallowed, still staring at the screen. “Eo, who was that girl who was talking?”

“Iris West? Barry, you’ve been living in Central City for this long but you don’t know who Iris West is?” Eo said, scandalized. “She wrote the one conclusive biography of the Flash! She’s the one reason we know as much about him as we do. Some people even thought that she was the Flash, you know.” 

“Iris, the Flash?” He gawked. 

“Yeah, I know.” Eo rolled his eyes. “What an obvious choice, huh? Who do you think he is?”

Barry froze. “Uh…I guess I never really thought about it before?”

“What? You mean you’ve never looked through your history books and wondered? Even as a kid? Come on.” 

“Nah,” he shrugged, and hoped he didn’t look as nervous as he was. “I guess I just wasn’t that into it.”

Eobard sighed, but continued. “Well, I personally thought—alright, bear with me, but I thought it might be Edward Thawne,” he said. “Which, I know, I know is a bit narcissistic, considering, well, I’m related to him, but how cool would that be? To be related to the Flash?” He gestured, growing more and more animated. “Did you know, he was married to Iris West? I’m a direct descendant of them. I’ve looked. It was such a discovery, in the 21st century historical circles.” He was doing that thing again, where he showed off and tried to sound calm about it, Barry noted distantly. It was adorable. 

“You’re—you’re related to Iris West?” He hoped he didn’t sound as strained as he felt. “Wow. That uh. That must be cool.” Eobard was Iris’s what, great-great-great-grandson? Something struck him, a strange sense of horrific loneliness—he had known, of course, that everyone he knew would be long dead, but he had forgotten that they would probably grow up and have children, that their children would have children, and that even though physically Eobard was only a couple of years older than him, Barry was centuries older than him. 

There was a time when Barry wanted to marry Iris, and now here he was on a date with her _grandchild._

“I know, right?” Eo’s smile grew impossibly brighter. “One of the most influential people in the twenty-first century, and I’m related to her.” He sighed, dreamily. “Well, my parents did always say that the Thawne family is old and noble.”

“Uhuh,” Barry said, shifting from foot to foot. “That’s, uh, cool.”

“We’ve had three Nobel laureates, four critically acclaimed actors, and two pulitzer winners,” Eo said, and there was something about him that almost made it look like he was bouncing. “One who was Iris West.” 

Three Nobel laureates. Two pulitzers. Iris got a Pulitzer. Jesus.

Something must have showed on his face, because Eo grabbed onto his hand. “That isn’t to say—Barry, you know that—I think you’re more impressive than any of that.”

“What?”

“Well, I mean—you’re—you’re _you_ ,” Eobard said helplessly. “I don’t think that anyone could be kinder than you, you—you make everything better, really. Um. What’s a Nobel Laureate compared to that?” He flushed. “Sorry. Too much?”

“Nah,” Barry smiled, something warm blooming in his chest. “It’s just fine.” He tangled their fingers together, leaning his head on Eobard’s shoulder. “Come on. You said something about the Pied Piper’s gauntlets?”

* * *

 

 

The weather got colder. Not too much, but cold enough. Classes were starting up again soon, and they couldn’t deny that fact any longer. Still, the cold snap had some perks; some of the trees were already turning autumn colors, even though it was barely September. Eobard, apparently, couldn’t wait for it to be fall again; like the Flash, he had an undying love for fall, and had dragged Barry outdoors to enjoy the weather. 

Barry wasn’t as excited. Fall meant winter, and winter sucked. Still, he could appreciate this weather; how if the wind was strong enough Eo’s cheeks and nose would turn pink, and he’d pretend to forget his gloves, so he could hold Barry’s hand. “For warmth,” he said, even though Eo’s hands were always warmer than Barry’s were.

“It’ll be Halloween, soon,” Eobard said, humming as they walked through the quad. “I love Halloween. It’s my favorite holiday.” He touched his wrist almost absentmindedly.

“There’s still two months until then,” Barry said, raising an eyebrow. 

“Two months isn’t that long of a time,” he said. “I still haven’t decided who I want to be, yet.”

“Really.” Up until this point, Barry had been 99% certain that Eo had been the Flash literally every halloween of his life. Well, Barry didn’t really think about it. But it seemed somewhat obvious.

“Come on, I have other hobbies than the Flash,” Eo said, shoving Barry to the side playfully. “Besides. I was him like, every year when I was a kid.”

And there it was. Still, Barry was almost beginning to believe that he could deal with the whole Flash hero worship thing—

“But I mean, of course I did, because he’s the Flash, and the Flash is the best,” he said. “He’s truth and justice and everything that Central City needs.”

—or maybe he couldn’t. “I mean, sure, but, he’s probably just a guy, Eo.” He fidgeted. “Pretty normal.”

“Barry, he’s _the Flash._ ” Eobard said, as if that explained everything. “He’s perfect. He can run over Mach two. I don’t think that he’s anything near _normal.”_

“Well, I mean, the guy’s only human, right?”

“But he’s not human! He’s a metahuman. He’s better.” He grinned, rubbing at the sleeve of his sweater.

“Still—”

“Alright, alright,” Eo rolled his eyes. “He’s probably a bit more normal. But he’s still immensely brave and talented, and great.”

That was probably the best Barry was going to get.

Eobard touched his wrist again.

“What’s that?” Barry said, looking at the red leather just barely peeking past the sleeve of Eobard’s sweater. 

“Huh?” Eobard said, blinking before he glanced down. “Oh, it’s—nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“It’s not nothing,” Barry said, taking Eobard’s hand but not prying. “Come on, what is it?”

“You’ll think it’s stupid,” he mumbled, flushing.

“No I won’t, come on.” Barry grinned, laughing.

Eo smiled, rolling his eyes. “Fine.”He pulled up his sleeve, showing off a watch. A Flash watch. “It’s limited edition,” he said, “my father got it for me for my eleventh birthday.” The watch was red, with a smiling cartoon flash in the center, with clear fraying on the band and several new holes put in. It was old. Loved. “I don’t even really wear it that often—”

“Eo,” Barry said, putting his hand on Eobard’s wrist. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.” He kissed him, then, tugging him closer with a hand on Eobard’s sweater. His lips were soft, Barry noticed vaguely. A little chapped. He was warm. Warm and soft and—then he was gone. 

“I, uh,” Eo mumbled, staring at him wide-eyed. 

“You dork,” Barry smiled, and kissed him again. 

* * *

 

The sky was gray, and heavy with humidity and unshed rain. Thank god for 25th century air conditioning, Barry thought with a shudder. If this was back when Barry went to Central, he’d be sticky and muggy even inside.

Someone knocked on the door. “Be there in a minute,” he called absentmindedly, staring blankly at the paper he was supposed to be editing.

The door creaked open. “Sure you won’t be here in a _Flash_?”

Barry’s eyes grew three times their size, and darted up to see the intruder. A very familiar two intruders. “ _Cisco_?” He gaped, even though there was no way it could be. “ _Hartley_?”

“I’m only here because Cisco wanted me to be, not because I care.” Hartley sniffed, crossing his arms, even though there was a warmth behind his words that betrayed him.

Not that Barry really cared at the moment, as Cisco was tackling him into a bear hug and filling the room with chatter. “So this is where you disappeared to back then! I knew you weren’t dead!” He beamed. “Perks of future vision, man.”

Barry’s brain short-circuited. “Wait—what? How are you guys even— _did you guys make a time machine_.” 

Cisco stilled, and broke apart from him. The room went oddly quiet. Cisco and Hartley exchanged furtive looks. “Um. Not exactly.”

Barry glanced between them. “So, what did you do, then? I mean, it’s not like you’ve lived through the past five hundred years.”

“Uh, about that.” Cisco fidgeted. “You know about my vibe powers, right?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“They, uh, as far as we’re aware, made me, uh, essentially immortal,” he said. “Like Tolkien elves.”

“But Hartley—” 

“Well, I haven’t died yet,” Hartley quipped dryly, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“How’s that even possible?” 

“Dunno,” Cisco lied. “Trying not to look a gift horse in the mouth, though.” He shrugged. “But that’s unimportant. You’re here! And Alive! And—dating Eobard Thawne?”

“What’s wrong with him?” Barry said almost immediately, more defensive than he meant to be.“He’s great.”

“No, Eo’s cool! He’s great!” He backtracked. “I just—you know about the whole Flash thing, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” he said. “But it’s cool! I’ve got a plan.”

“A plan.” Hartley said, raising an eyebrow. “Okay.” 

Whatever, Hartley. Everything would turn out fine. “Yeah. A plan,” he said. “I make great plans.”

“Just keep telling that to yourself, Allen.”

 


	4. You Always Hurt The One You Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > You always break the kindest hearts  
> With a hasty word you can't recall,  
> so if I broke your heart last night  
> it's because I love you most of all.
>>
>>> In which Barry Allen's plans go about as well as expected. 

The Flash didn’t appear for a month, and Eobard was fine with that. The air got colder and crisper and he had Barry to spend his time with. He had always had the Flash; at least, he had always had him in dreams. In fantasies. Barry was different. Barry was flesh and blood and real and human, and his hands were always warm when Eobard held them. The Flash—he was real now, too, in a way that Eobard had never even dreamed of—(but that was a lie. He had dreamed of it, many times: while staring through his bedroom window, while sitting alone at lunch, while grown up and and yet still alone)—and that left Eobard breathless with possibility. But. It didn’t feel _real_. It felt like he was sucked into a Flash movie, or a comic book. Like he was hearing the story of the Flash told over again, like in one of the museum’s more interactive tours.

With Barry, everything felt real.

* * *

 

“You know Cisco and Hartley?” Eo said.

“Oh, yeah, we go way back,” Barry said.“Wait, _you_ know Cisco and Hartley?” 

“Of course!” He smiled. “I’ve known them for years. They’re very prominent in the twenty-first century historical circles.” 

“I wonder why,” Barry muttered. 

“Sorry?” 

“Nothing.” Barry waved him off. “You were saying something about wanting to meet up with them?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “I thought maybe we could get drinks with them, sometime?”

“That’d be great.” Barry smiled. 

* * *

 

The Flash reappeared on a Tuesday. The wind was icy, and the sky was gray. It didn’t rain, though. And when Eobard saw a streak of lightning run across the news hologram, it felt like it might as well have been the middle of July.His heart stopped in his chest, for one bright, weightless moment, and he felt suddenly as if he was a child again, eleven years old and visiting the Flash museum for the first time, watching a red blur flash across the landscape of an old-time video. When he felt for the first time that anything was possible. 

He was beautiful. It was beautiful. It was as if a light switch had been flipped inside of Eobard, and he felt limitless. He wanted, suddenly to finish all of the projects he had cast aside years ago: the old AI tech Gideon had found, his childhood dream to recreate the Flash’s powers. 

* * *

There was a press conference. It had been advertised on all of the main channels, an endless replay of  _The Flash in 2430, old hero or new speedster? Friday, at eight, seven central._ Eobard had to beg everyone he knew to get a press pass, and eventually had to promise Tina that she’d never have to buy him a birthday present again to finally get in on the event.

His hands were shaking. His heart was beating so fast it was almost like he had superpowers. He was going to talk to the Flash, and oh, god, he was everything Eo had dreamed he would be, tall and long-limbed.

“Flash! Um, hello, I'm professor Eobard Thawne from the Central City University chronology department, and I was just wondering if I could ask a few questions about, um, your rumored time travel.”

“Ask away,” the Flash said, radiant and noble and perfect. God. 

Eobard’s breath caught, his palms were sweating. “Right,” he said, barely holding back a stutter, “I was wondering, have you ever time traveled before this?” He had to read off the questions verbatim, he couldn’t keep his head straight.

The Flash considered his question. “Yes,” he said, “but never for so long a time.”

“And, how would you say the timeline reacted during these occasions?” Eobard knew, theoretically, that he should be listening with rapt attention, that the things he could learn from this conversation where incomparable, but he couldn’t focus on anything. A million questions raced through his mind: _why here, why now,_ and _is the future all you dreamed it’d be,_ and _do you need anyone to show you around because my boyfriend and I would be willing to help,_ and _do you plan on joining the Justice League,_ and _are you ever going back._ Could the Flash even go back? Was that possible? the paradox which could ensue would be mind blowing. After all, Eobard knew that the Flash never returned. But if the Flash did return, would all of those memories disappear? If the Flash returned and lived out the rest of his life in his time, would Eobard even love the Flash as much as he did? Without the mystery of what happened to him, and the possibility of returning? And if Eobard didn’t love the Flash, was he truly the same Eobard Thawne?

Chronology. So much easier in theory than in practice.

“I mean, it didn’t really have all that much of an effect,” the Flash shrugged, effortless. “Before this, the most I had traveled was a day, maybe a week into the past. Still, If there’s one thing I learned: if at all possible, the timeline will correct itself,” he said, and Eobard tried hard enough he could catch the glimmer of a smile in the Flash’s blurry features. “Thanks for the question. It’s not often I get asked about the science behind it all.”

His heart might as well have beat out of his chest. Time, after that, passed in a blur; he could only tell time by the frantic beats of his heart, the amount of glances he threw back at the flash. Of course, eventually, the press conference ended. He was just about to be shuffled out of the room with the reporters when the Flash called him back.

The Flash. Called him back. “Professor Thawne? Would you mind if I speak to you for a moment?”

_No,_ He thought, his heart nearly jumping out of his chest, _I definitely wouldn’t mind to speak with you._ “Of course! Anything for you, Flash,” he said like he had countless times before, in childish daydreams. 

“I just wanted to say again, how nice it is to hear from another scientific mind. And a professor at Central City U, wow,” the Flash said, and there it was again, the hint of a smile behind the blur of his vibrations. “You’re only like what, twenty-eight?”

“Twenty-nine,” he corrected absentmindedly. He may have had a genius level IQ but he wasn’t that good. 

“Well, if I ever need help with chronology, I’ll be certain to go to you first.”

He was dead. there was no other explanation. He was dead, and this was heaven, and the Flash was smiling, oh god. “Please do! Anytime,” he said before he could stop himself. He coughed. “I mean, it’s just. You’re a personal hero of mine, Flash. I mean, a personal hero for all of Central City, obviously, but especially me, and it would be my honor to help you, um, if you ever needed it.”

“I’m certain you would,” the Flash said, before he speeded off and left Eobard alone. 

He felt, lightheaded, or maybe drunk, but at the same time he felt like he could move mountains. The Flash! Spoke to him! It was almost like it was too good to be true. And, well, there was really only one thing to do, wasn’t there? He called Barry.

* * *

 

“Barry! Barry, I talked to him, and he was—god, he was everything I dreamed he’d be.” Eobard said in a rush, staring at Barry with a smile permanently glued to his face.“I _talked_ to the _Flash.”_ He said, voice giddy. “ The Flash!” He ran his fingers through his hair, ruffling it even more than it already was.

He was beautiful, like this. Something grew cold in Barry’s heart, something that reminded Barry that it wasn’t too late. He didn’t have to go through with his plan. He could just stay, like this, with Eo’s easy smiles and the dorky way his eyes lit up. 

“He complimented me, even,” Eo said. “And he was smiling, too! I could tell.”

Something cold and cruel curled in the pit of Barry’s stomach, something a little bit like guilt. But he wasn’t guilty. He had no reason to be. He—he had a plan. And Eo could still love the Flash. He just. Would see him as more human. That was his only problem. Loving—loving wasn’t. “That’s great, Eo.”

There was some commotion on Eo’s end of the hologram. “Listen, Barry, I’ve gotta go. See you soon?”

“Yeah.” Barry swallowed dryly. “I’ll see you soon.”

* * *

 

“Yes, Alfred, I was at the press conference with the Flash last weekend,” he said, and tried to keep the smirk off his face. “In fact, he asked me to stay after to speak to him.”

“Sure he did, Thawne,” Alfred rolls his eyes. “I take it you’ll be watching that interview with him on Friday?”

“I teach on Fridays at noon, Alfred.” He huffed. He _had_ been tempted to cancel Friday’s lesson. Very, very tempted. But there was some sort of professionalism he had to maintain, and he didn’t exactly have tenure. “But I figured I could always catch it when Barry and I go out for drinks with the Rathaway-Ramons.” He waved it off. “Did I tell you though, how the Flash said that if he needed anyone who knew about chronology, he’d go straight to me?”

“Thawne?”

“Yes?”

“Isn’t your prep hour nearly up? Or if it isn’t, do you think you could, I don’t know, spend it somewhere else?”

Eobard grumbled, but walked away. He didn’t know why he bothered telling Alfred. He obviously wouldn’t appreciate it properly.

* * *

 

Eobard thought, briefly, of writing something for Gideon. But after several failed drafts, he decided it wasn’t worth it.

It wasn’t like she’d get it, anyway.

* * *

 

“Barry!” Eobard called from their table at the bar. “We’re over here.”

Hartley and Cisco were watching them over with tentative eyes. Weird. “Hey,” Barry said with a smile, the warm one that was reserved just for Eo. “Sorry I’m late.”

“You’re always late.” Eobard rolled his eyes. Cisco choked on his drink. “Anyway, I know I told you this story a million times, but I was just enlightening Cisco and Hartley about the time I met the Flash.” 

“Oh yeah?” 

“He called me over to talk to him afterwards, you know.” He turned back towards Cisco and Hartley, and he could feel his mouth tugging into a grin. “Said it was so impressive thatI was a professor this young.”

“That’s great, Eo,” Hartley said, just as Cisco grinned. 

“Did he admit his undying love for you, too?” Cisco snickered. To his right, Barry started coughing.

“Get out of here Cisco, I’m telling the truth.” Eobard huffed. 

“I’m being serious!”

Eobard rolled his eyes. “Besides, I don’t want the Flash like that. I’ve got all I need,” he said, and—it was true. He’d had dreams, when he was younger, dreams where the Flash loved him, where he married the Flash. But—he didn’t care about that anymore. Those dreams were just dreams: pale in comparison to reality. The Flash could stay where he was; immovable on the pedestal of being Eobard’s hero. Eobard had all that he needed.

A hush fell over the table. Was that too much? Too affectionate, too romantic? They had only been together a couple of months. But surely a statement of contentment wasn’t too sappy, and god knew that Hartley and Cisco could be just as gushingly romantic if not more. He fidgeted, checked his watch. _6:05. “_ Eo,” Barry murmured, soft and almost sadly. But obviously he wasn’t sad. That didn’t make sense. 

Eobard cleared his throat, glanced around the room. The holoprojectors were set up to play some talk show— _it was six o’clock._ “The interview. The one with the Flash. It’s about to start,” he said, making a furious gesture to the bartender to turn on the audio. 

“Uh, okay, I guess we’re not about to talk about—” Cisco began.

“Shh!” Eobard hissed, eyes transfixed. 

The projector set at there was better than the one Eobard had at home; it projected in all color, in more dimensions. It was like the Flash was there with them, Eobard noted dimly, his heart beating quick again. 

“I’ve noticed that you didn’t want any questions relating to your appearance here, so I’ll try to stay away from that,” the talk show host said, some pretty blonde woman with a permanently smiling face. 

“It’s a bit personal, is all.”

“Well, being the Flash is an immensely personal job, isn’t it?” She said. “Saving lives.”

“It is,” he admitted, “but that’s what’s so rewarding about it, I guess? Helping so many people.”

“But surely, it’s not all rewarding? There’s got to be some part about being the Flash that you hate.”

Please, like anyone would hate being the Flash. Eobard rolled his eyes. 

“Well, I mean, I wouldn’t say I hated it, but there are some things that are a bit more less enjoyable than others.” 

“Oh? Do tell.”

“Well, I mean, I hate to say it, but—dealing with fanboys, let me tell you. It’s alright when they’re kids, you know, I can respect that. But adults—don’t people grow out of their superhero phases, here? Honestly, it’s a little embarrassing.”

_What_.

No. The Flash was—The Flash wouldn’t care, the Flash was good and noble and—and—and—

“Honestly, they just throw themselves at you sometimes, and it’s so cringeworthy,” the Flash continued. “Of course, you try to be nice, but, well, you know how it is.”

 

“I—I’m going to be back,” Eobard gasped, attempting to remain calm. Something like shame curled low and painful in his stomach; he had told everyone how he met the Flash, how he thought the Flash liked him—god. He was such an idiot. Of course the Flash didn’t like him. He was— he was _the Flash._ Eobard was just Eobard. The Flash didn’t even know he was breaking Eo’s heart. Or maybe he did. Maybe he knew, and he broke it anyway, because it’s not like Eo was important enough to worry about. 

* * *

Later, Barry’d say he could see the exact moment Eobard’s heart broke.

_What had he done?_ He’d wonder, guilt knotting up in his throat. _What had to be done,_ he’d tell himself. He did what had to be done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaaa i know i know I'm like, three days late, and I'm sorry
> 
> October is so hectic for me, oh my god, and you wouldn't believe how recalcitrant this chapter has been i swear


	5. Sleepwalk

No one had seen Eo in three days. He had canceled his classes, he feigned sick when anyone asked why, and he didn’t answer whenever Barry or Hartley or Cisco tried to contact him. He was just…silent. Barry didn’t think he had ever seen Eobard be silent. He doubted anyone had.

Guilt churned low in his gut. He had to do something, surely. He couldn’t just leave Eobard alone, moping but avoiding all of the things that usually brought him happiness. Somebody had to go after him, drag him out of his rut. It might as well be Barry.

Barry found him on the fire escape, clad in sweatpants and a Central City U t-shirt, somehow impervious to the chill of the wind. 

“How’d you get in here,” Eobard said quietly, instead of greeting.

“Your passcode is the day the Flash disappeared,” Barry said, because he was fairly certain that _I was so worried I used super speed to phase through the door_ wouldn’t go over that well.

He frowned. “Oh. I guess it is.” His breath made a cloud of white fog appear, and Eo still didn’t look at him. “I suppose I should change that.”

“Eo,” Barry said, a knot forming in his throat. “I…Come inside, it’s freezing.”

“I’m fine.” He waved it off.

“Eo, you’re not fine,” Barry said. “Nobody’s seen you in three days. What’s with the radio silence?”

“It’s nothing.” He shook his head. “I’ll get over it soon. I just need some time to myself.”

“Eo, shutting yourself away isn’t healthy,” he said. “I’m sorry about the Flash, but that doesn’t mean you should do this.”

“You don’t understand, Barry,” he murmured, staring down at the city below him. “The Flash, he was—he was everything for me, Barry.”

“I know.”

“No, you really don’t.” He sighed. He still hadn’t looked at Barry. “He was—I can’t even explain it. I cited him for why I became a chronologist, Barry. He was the one thing that never seemed to go wrong, or disappear. The Flash was—” he broke off. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter, anyway.”

“Eo,” Barry murmured, and swallowed despite the lump in his throat. “You’re important. So if it’s important to you, then it’s important.”

Finally, Eobard looked at him, and there was something in his eyes that was indescribable. “What did I do to deserve you, Barry Allen.”

_Something terrible,_ Barry wanted to say, because god knew that Eo didn’t deserve to have his heart brokenby some asshole who didn’t understand a good thing when he saw it. “I should really ask what I did to deserve you, Eobard Thawne.” He smiled.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Eobard rolled his eyes, but there was a hint of a smile on his lips. “I’m hardly special.”

“Hardly special—Eo, oh my god. You’re probably the youngest professor in CCU history—”

“Actually, that was Pavel Andreivich in 2258.”

“—you’re absolutely brilliant in chronology—”

“It’s not like I’m the best in my field, Barry—”

“—And you’re probably the best guy I’ve ever met, alright?” He said, grabbing Eobard’s hands. “You’re brilliant and you’re gorgeous and you’re so much more than the Flash could ever know, Eobard Thawne.”

Something soft and indescribable filled Eo’s eyes, and Barry worried for a moment, that he might cry. “God, I love you, Barry Allen,” Eobard whispered, and he kissed him. 

“You’d make a far better Flash than he ever could be, Eo,” Barry said, squeezing Eobard’s hands. 

It began to rain. 

* * *

 

Eobard went back to work on Tuesday, and it was cold even though the sun shined. He tightened the scarf around his neck, and pressed his briefcase against his chest like it was a shield. Everything was fine, he told himself. Everything was fine. Nobody here even cared enough about the Flash to bother watching the interview. The only one who cared about the Flash that much was him. 

“Eobard, you’re back.” Hartley never sounded particularly enthusiastic about anything that wasn’t his husband, but this was probably as excited as he got. Still, there was an edge of softness to his voice, like at any minute Eobard would just dart away.“How…how are you doing?” He asked, and it was like he was pretending that everything was normal, but it wasn’t. 

“I’m fine,” Eobard said, sending him a tight smile. “I was sick for a couple of days. Back to school colds, you know how it is.”

“I’m sure.” He rolled his eyes, then coughed. “Listen, if you…if you need anything, Cisco and I’ve got your back, alright?”

Something warm filled Eobard’s chest. “Yeah.” He smiled again, but it wasn’t forced. Maybe things wouldn’t be so bad.

He started his first lecture of the day with a skip in his step and a latte sitting on his desk, just the way he liked it, and with no explanation as to how it got there. The sun was shining. He had his most advanced class. Things were looking up. 

Then, class ended.

“Hey, Thawne,” Alfred said.“How are you doing?”

“Fine,” he said. “Was sick yesterday. You know how it is.”

“Oh, yes.” he hummed, waving it off. “Say, I managed to catch that interview with the Flash, Friday night.”

Something cold started to knot up in Eobard’s stomach, and dread took hold of his heart. “Yeah?”

“I wasn’t planning on it, but Bruce insisted. That boy and superheroes. These days, he’s almost as bad as you!” He laughed, clapping him on the back. “Say, funny what you were saying Friday, trying to pull one over on me. The Flash, calling you back to talk? Ha.” 

“Yeah. Funny,” he said, swallowing down the shame which threatened to overtake him. “Real funny.” 

* * *

 

If the Flash insisted on hating him, on being cruel and inconsiderate and everything that the Flash shouldn’t stand for, then Eobard would have to take matters into his own hands. He would have to be the hero Central City needed. He had always wanted to be the Flash, as a child. 

_You’d make a far better Flash than he ever could, Eo._

Maybe he would.

In a document, somewhere, back from when he was in high school, he had scrawled out some formulas. He had picked it back up again in his undergrad years, when science flooded his mind every minute of every day, and it seemed a sin not to use it. There were even paragraphs pulled out of Iris West’s biography, annotated and marked up. 

Before, he had been missing something. He hadn’t known what. But he was older now, and the Flash was here. Even if the Flash was a cruel and thoughtless man, he was still impossible. He held secrets that no one else couldever possibly know. With him here, now, an immeasurably valuable source to study, it wouldn’t be like before. He had new source material. He could figure out how to make himself just like the Flash. How to make himself a better Flash.

But first—all superheroes needed a sidekick, a team to depend on. He had Barry, of course, but—he didn’t want to include Barry just yet. Later, maybe. When he had more things figured out. For right now, he searched around his apartment with excited, frantic hands, until he came across the flash drive that Gideon had given him for his last birthday. Legitimate rudimentary AI tech from the 21st century, she had said. He hadn’t had a chance to take much of a look into it yet. Now, he would. 

(When they were kids, he’d always insist on playing the Flash. And even though Gideon was a full year older than him, she always took on the role of Kid Flash with grace and enthusiasm. She would’ve been the best sidekick the world had ever had.)

It wasn’t very hard to change the AI's name from _Sally_ to _Gideon,_ after all.

 


	6. Runaway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > As I walk along, I wonder  
> A-what went wrong with our love  
> A love that was so strong
>>
>>> October faded into November which turned to December, and it was with chapped lips and cold hands that Eo finally got to the point in his projects where he was ready to show them to Barry. He wanted for things to be perfect, of course, but that was wildly impractical, and he knew better than to expect that.

But things were as good as they were ever going to be before trials, and he didn’t want to wait until after them. After all, not everyone survived the first particle accelerator explosion. A concentrated blast of X-elementals and dark matter could quite possibly…not have the intended effect. Of course, Eo trusted his scientific abilities. He probably wouldn’t die in his attempt. Even if he did, it wouldn't really matter. The reward greatly outweighed the risks, and if he died trying to make himself a hero, well, there were worse ways to go.

But if he died without anyone knowing what he was up to, if he died with Barry thinking everything was fine — it was unthinkable. He'd just have disappeared, like he never existed in the first place, and Barry would be left without any answers and grieving. 

At least this way Barry would know.

* * *

 

“Just a few more steps.” Eo’s voice was soft in Barry's ear. “Alright. Open your eyes.” 

“It’s…a lab.” It wasn’t one at the university, but it was a lab alright. Barry knew one when he saw one, what with the beakers carefully set aside, labels painstakingly written in Eo’s cursive.

“Not just _any_ lab.” Eo said. “I’ve been working on some groundbreaking stuff here, Barry. I think I’m almost done.”

“Done with what?” Barry raised an eyebrow, but there was a grin that stretched across his face. 

“The experiments! I’m almost ready to move onto practical trials,” he said, and there was a bounce in his step that hadn’t been there before. 

“Yeah? What are you working on here? It doesn’t exactly look like chronology.” He poked a beaker experimentally, examining the colorful fluid inside. 

“Not chronology, no,” he said. “It’s more of a combination of chemistry, physics, chronology, and applied metahuman studies.”

Applied metahuman studies… “Eo, what are these experiments for.”

He took a deep breath, and a smile passed over his face like he was about to share a secret. “I’m trying to recreate the Flash’s powers.”

“You’re what.” 

“Come on Barry, it’s not like the twenty-first century has all of the superheroes. We have the Justice League! And don’t you think that the Flash would find things a lot easier if he had a partner?” Eo chattered. “There hasn’t been a speedster since Kid Flash went out in a blaze of glory with Jesse Quick. It’s about time Central City has new speedster. A new hero,” he said. “Weren’t you telling me that I’d make a better Flash than the Flash could ever be? Maybe I could.”

Worry knotted up Barry’s stomach, but he forced it away. There was nothing wrong with Eo wanting to become a speedster. He’d had partners before. A new partner would’t be bad at all, and Eo…Eo could be the best partner he could ever ask for. 

Still, there was something about this that put Barry on edge, and he didn’t know why. They’d be a great team, Eo and him. There was nothing wrong with that. But that didn’t stop him from feeling concerned. “You’d be a great Flash, Eo.”

He smiled. “I’d like to imagine so.”

 

* * *

 

Something was wrong. There was a reason why Eo shouldn’t get super speed, and it couldn’t just be because Barry wanted to be the only one. That was petty, and ridiculous, but he didn’t tell Cisco or Hartley because he knew that was what they would say. Eobard was made for a whole lot more than just being Barry’s damsel-in-distress, and Barry knew that, but there was still a voice inside of him that said that Eo shouldn’t get powers. He couldn’t help it. 

He wouldn’t pay attention to it, Barry decided. He’d be supportive, and help him, because that’s what Eo wanted, and that’s what would make him happy. God knew what had happened the last time he had prioritized what he felt over what Eo did. 

* * *

The idea hit him with a cold sweat in the middle of the night.

Eo could die from this. From speed. Eo might’ve been willing enough to give that up, but Barry wasn’t. Barry had almost died after the particle accelerator exploded. He had been in a coma for nine months. What if the same thing happened to Eo? What if worse did?

As the Flash, Barry could keep Eo safe; from fires, from robberies gone bad, from aliens come down to earth, but he couldn’t save Eo from himself. 

Barry couldn’t let Eobard do it. Barry couldn’t. Eo was—he was—he had more that he needed to do with his life. He couldn’t just throw it all away because he loved the Flash. Eobard couldn’t—he couldn’t kill himself because he wanted to become a hero. Barry had to stop him. 

Mind made up, he tried to slow down his heartbeat to something less erratic than a thousand beats per minute. He’d convince Eo not to do it in the morning. 

He tossed and he turned and he tried not to dream.

He didn’t sleep at all that night. 

* * *

“Apparently a friend of Hartley’s does clothing commissions,” Eobard said,  “I think I’m gonna get them to make my costume for me. So much less expensive than on the internet. Plus it’s more personal. Kinda makes me feel like the Flash.” He grinned. “But I suppose that’s the point.”

_I don’t think that you should do it,_ was on the tip of his tongue, but he didn’t say it. He couldn’t say it. “Eo, these experiments—they can be really dangerous. They say that the Flash almost died from becoming the Flash.”

“But he survived.”

“Yeah, but other people didn’t! When the particle accelerator exploded, more than a dozen people died. Eo, I—”

“I’ll be fine, Barry.” 

“Eo, you could die,” he said, and the words were stark and painful but he had to say them. 

A beat passed. Eobard didn’t look at him. “I know.”

“Then why?”

“You don’t understand, Barry, I have to do this. I have to,” he said, and swallowed visibly. “All of my life I’ve wanted to do something that matters, Barry. To impress the Flash, to be the Flash, it doesn’t matter. Doing something important, that matters. If I had speed, Barry, just think of all the good I could do.”

“Eo—” Barry had no room to judge, really. He had been essentially the same way all of his life, but this was different. This was Eo’s life. And Eo couldn’t be allowed to die because of his hero-worship. A panic rose with in Barry’s chest; he grabbed at Eobard’s hand. “Eo, you can’t.”

“I have to do this, Barry,” Eobard said, and he didn’t meet Barry's eyes. “Please don’t ask me not to.” He pulled his hand away and left.

* * *

 

The panic never exactly went away. It changed forms, until he eventually grew so tired of being panicked that all he could do was assume thatEo would live, because the alternative was unthinkable. That didn’t mean that he wasn’t tormented; at night, he lie awake, with all of the possible ways things could go wrong running through his head. Eo was a chronologist, he didn’t specialize in human to metahuman transformations, he hardly even knew anything about metahuman biology. Barry only had practical knowledge, which wouldn’t help at all to keep Eo from killing himself with too many tachyons. 

Then, there were…other problems. Other problems that made Barry hate himself for having to deal with, hate himself for putting himself into this position in the first place, hate himself for even thinking about it. But he still thought about them. Thought about how, if Eo got speed, he’d talk to the Flash. Thought about how if Eo found out he was the Flash, he’d know that Barry was the one who broke his heart. And if Eo knew that Barry was the one who said all of those things—Barry’s throat seized up. He couldn’t think about that. If he thought about that, he wouldn’t stop thinking about that, and it’d be an endless cycle of worry and stress. 

He knew beyond a doubt that he couldn’t let Eo get speed, but at the same time, he also knew that he couldn’t stop him and forgive himself for doing so. 

But did it really matter if he could forgive himself, if Eo lived? (Did it matter if he could forgive himself, if it meant Eo still loved him?) 

He’d try again, he told himself. He’d try again and again and again and until Eo realized that he couldn’t do this. (He couldn’t lose him. He’d lost everyone else. Oh, he had Hartley and Cisco, but they weren’t _his_ Hartley and Cisco. They were different, older, and always wrapped up in themselves. They had lost too many people to count. And they weren’t the same as they used to be.)

He spent that night running through the city, and the wind was so cold and striking he could almost forget about everything else.  Almost. He couldn’t, of course. His mind always strayed to Eobard, of appearing at his apartment and begging his forgiveness, or kissing him hard to ignore the guilt gnawing at his gut. 

He didn’t go and see Eo, though. Instead he ran until his knees felt like giving out, ran until he didn’t no how long he had been running. He collapsed onto his bed sometime past three in the morning, and did not dream. He would talk to Eo in the morning, and eventually Eo would give this up. He’d be safe, and he’d be Barry’s, and everything would be fine eventually.

 

* * *

 

“So, what was it you wanted me to see?” Barry asked, fiddling with the wool of his sweater. He’d work up to telling Eo he couldn’t get speed, he decided. He’d lay out his arguments neatly and presentably and Eo wouldn’t be able to argue, but he wouldn’t start right away. That’d be cruel, just marching in and telling Eo that he couldn’t live his childhood dreams. 

“It’s just through here,” Eo said, entwining their fingers together and pulling Barry along.They stepped into the next room. A costume stood proudly on a mannequin, bright and commanding attention. “For when I finish the experiments.”

The costume was yellow and black. Yellow and black with a red lightning bolt, and it was all too familiar. He knew that costume, when he shouldn’t have ever seen it before. 

There had to be something about it that was different, he told himself, anything, and he scanned desperately for a sign that it wasn’t what he thought it was. The lightning was the same shade of red. The cut was exactly the same. There was nothing different about the color of his gloves, or the shape of his boots, or the way the mask hid his face.

He tried to breathe, tried to remain calm. Maybe he was just using aspects of his suit. Maybe he was trying to reclaim it, or something. Make it into a better icon. “Do you like it, Barry? I designed it myself.” He said, proud and obviously so. “It’s just the way I always dreamed it, loosely inspired by Kid Flash’s costume.”

“It’s great, Eo,” he said mechanically, without even noticing, all of his past plans and pleas protests dying before they even reached his lips. “It’s inspired by Kid Flash? No one else?” He managed to say weakly, wondering if this was some trick or some cruel joke. Maybe Eo had found out that he was the Flash and this was is way of telling him, his way of saying _you broke my heart now I’ll break yours._ But that wouldn’t be like Eo. Eo was _Eo,_ the nerdy chronology professor who wore glasses even though he didn’t actually need them, the guy who could talk about the Flash for hours, and smile all the way through it. Eo was good, not evil. Nothing like the Reverse Flash.

“Yes, of course. Who else would I base it off of?” Eo frowned. “You’re acting strange, Barry. Are you alright?” He touched Barry’s shoulder, casually, innocently, but still Barry wanted to flinch like it burned him.“Barry?” 

“It’s nothing, Eo.” He swallowed thickly. “I think I might be getting a cold, is all.” 

“Oh,” Eo said, and his eyes were kind and understanding, and why did he have to be so good? “We could go to your place? I’m told I can make a decent soup, and we could watch Star Trek.” 

“Nah, uh, I don’t think you should come.” He faked a cough. “I don’t want you to get sick, after all.” 

“Oh, alright,” he said. “Another time, then.”

“Another time,” Barry echoed.

* * *

 

The Reverse Flash’s suit wasn’t in the Flash museum. Nor was it mentioned in the biography, or in any historical journals about the early 21st century. There were mentions of the Reverse Flash, of course there were; hadn’t the very first date Eo and Barry had gone on been to _The Flash and The Reverse_? But there was no continuity as to how the his suit was portrayed, either in movies or comic books or even cartoons. Sometimes they depicted him as looking exactly the same as the Flash, sometimes he wore black and white. Never once was there any reference to the Reverse Flash’s real outfit; no pictures, no video, no anything.

The only way for Eo to have created something exactly like it was for him to have thought of it himself. And if Eo thought of it himself, then that meant—Eobard was the Reverse Flash. And if Eo became the Reverse Flash, that meant that all of the fights Barry had once had against him, it had been Eo fighting the Flash. And the only way that Eo would fight the Flash would be if he knew that Barry was the Flash, and knew that Barry had manipulated him, toyed with his emotions and then broke his heart. 

No matter what, Barry was going to lose him, and in so many different ways—after all, if Eo became the Reverse Flash, he wouldn’t be Eo anymore, not really. He’d be different. Crueler. Darker. Just like the Reverse had been, back when Barry knew him. 

He’d hate Barry, and Barry would hate him, and it’d be dark and terrible just like it used to be. And—that couldn’t be allowed. Eo couldn’t become evil. Eo wasn’t like that. He was—he was beautiful and good and everything that Barry ever wanted, not Barry’s arch nemesis. 

He wouldn’t be evil.

Still, as time crawled by, day after day, a small spark of doubt was sown in his mind. What if Eo was going to be evil. What if he was the Reverse Flash? What if all of this was inevitable? He couldn’t let that happen. If he stopped Eo from becoming a speedster, he’d stop Eo from becoming the Reverse Flash, too. If Eo didn’t get his speed, nothing would change. Everything would be fine. 

But Eo wouldn’t just stop if Barry asked him to. Not even if he begged. He couldn’t just stop him from doing it with a word, he’d need a plan. He’d need to stop Eo from even wanting to— he’d need to make Eo hate the Flash. Hate his powers. Hate everything that he stood for. If Eo hated the Flash, then he wouldn’t want to be just like him, and he’d stop. 

Guilt swelled in his gut. It’d hurt, of course. To make Eo stop experiments, he’d need to make him not only hate the Flash, but he couldn’t talk to Barry for some time, either. Eo lived for praise, after all. For applause. And without Barry there to give him that, and without his love for the Flash to spur him on, he’d stop it, eventually. It would hurt him, but it wouldn’t matter, because Eo would be fine, and he’d love Barry, and he wouldn’t go on to be Barry’s arch enemy. Everything would be like it should be. 

It would hurt. But that couldn’t stop him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I know, I'm late and I'm sorry about that. College apps, ugh.


	7. Elanor Rigby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > All the lonely people, where do they all come from?  
> All the lonely people, where do they all belong?
>>
>>> _Beep._

“Barry, uh, it’s Eo again. I was wondering if maybe you’d like to do something soon? I feel like haven’t seen you in forever. I’ve been doing some tests, lately, and I think I might actually be getting close to actual recreation of the Flash’s powers in a human subject, can you believe it? Anyway, call me.”

_Message deleted._

“Barry! Me again. It must be really busy in the Chemistry department these days. It’s alright, I understand. We’re scientists, we lose track of time. Still, you need to eat. I was thinking maybe we could get dinner together? We could talk about how our experiments are going.”

_Message deleted._

_“_ Listen, Barry, ifyou don’t want to talk about the Flash experiments, that’s fine. I still want to see you. Please call me back.”

_Message deleted._

“I miss you.”

_Delete message?_

_…_

* * *

 

Winter set in like a menace, eventually, like it always did in Central. Blankets of snow carpeted every street, there was a layer of ice on every sidewalk. The air was so cold it made Eobard hurt when he breathed, but he breathed anyway; long, masochistic gulps of air that were cold but cleansing. His hands were kept in pockets or gloves, and they did not make aborted movements to his communicator every time he thought of Barry. 

He focused on his experiments, instead. Barry would come around eventually, Eo knew. He wouldn’t just disappear. He’d have some sort of reason, and Eobard would play angry for a bit, but then Eobard would forgive him. It would all turn out fine.

(Inhis dreams, Barry would apologize, smile, kiss him, and everything was beautiful until he woke up again.)

It hurt, Barry being gone. 

He spent his time reading up on metahuman transformations, on the chemical properties of certain formulas, and the likelihood of is body surviving a change like this. There was no time to think of Barry, aside from how helpful his insight would be. (This was a lie. There was plenty of time to think of Barry; in the early morning, when bright winter sunlight streamed through his window; or in his classes, where he caught a glimpse of the same shade of brown hair, and his heart stuttered; or in the dark of the early nights, when he walked home, and even through the fabric of his gloves, his hands still felt cold.)

His experiments were really getting somewhere. He had tested his last batch of lab rats, and Phillip seemed to have some actual promise. He was still alive, for one, which was a definite improvement from his last three trials. (He gave Fauna and Briar proper burials. Poor things. Flora…well, there wasn’t much left of Flora to bury. He still felt bad about that.)

* * *

 

It was a Wednesday when the Flash appeared, and it had already been shaping up to be a terrible day even before he did. He fell into a snowbank on his way home from work, ruining his suit and making him both wet and cold. He spent the rest of his afternoon eating chicken soup and sniffling before going to the lab, where he seriously debated the merits of draping a blanket over his lab coat, despite the safety violations. He didn’t, of course—if he accidentally knocked something over, the result could be anywhere from mildly annoying to catastrophic for the entire city. That didn’t mean he couldn’t be bitter about it, however. Bitter and cold. 

He shuffled about the lab, tending to his experiments, feeding the lab rats. He took a blood sample and put it into a petri dish. Today he’d see how his blood—how his DNA—would react to the formula.

He pulled up a magnification ofhis blood as a control, scribbled down the rate of his cellular regeneration. He readied another petri dish, and had just dropped in the serum when—a flash of red stopped in front of him.

a"Flash," Eo said, and his heart—his traitorous, traitorous heart—skipped a beat. "Why are you hear?" To apologize, maybe? To help him with his projects? To say, _Dr. Thawne, I'm so sorry about before, you know the media, it twists what you say. I have nothing but respect for you and everyone who derives joy from my presence_ or maybe, like in Eobard's childhood dreams, _I need your help, Eobard, only you can help me._

"Dr. Thawne," he said, and his voice crackled like lightning. He looked almost like a god, like this: electricity sparking around him, his voice and face hidden and anonymous. "You have to stop your experiments."

Eobard blinked. His throat went dry. "I'm sorry, I believe I heard you wrong."

"Your experiments to become like me— they have to stop."

"Why?” He asked, because this was the Flash. The Flash would have to have legitimate reason to stop him, he wouldn't deny him just because—

"It's not safe, and you know it, Dr Thawne. You're putting this entire city at risk."

"I'm not," he said, and he couldn't be, he'd checkedhis calculations thirty times over. "The only one who will be affected is me."

“There’s still a risk, and you know it. And for what purpose?” He said. “What are you even trying to do, Dr. Thawne? what'syour goal?" He said. "There is no point in this."

"I—I want to be better! To be like you. I am meant to be far more than I am, Flash. I could help people."

The flash stared him down, and if Eobard concentrated, he could feel the patronizing pity in the Flash's eyes. Eobard's heart caught in his throat. Unbidden tears sprung to his eyes—he blinked them back. the Flash began to laugh. "You? Please, Dr. Thawne. You'd make a terrible speedster. You were born to be more—no, you weren't. You're an academic, Dr. Thawne. Stick to Academia. You belong there." He said. "This isn't some comic book. You'd die before you became a speedster. Don't put your life on the line because of some—some childish fantasy.”

A knot grew in Eobard’s throat. “It’s not a childish fantasy,” he said, even though that was exactly what a stupid little kid with dreams of grandeur would say. “I want to help this city. I want to make it better. Like you did. Like you do.” 

“Central City already has ahero, Professor Thawne,” the Flash said, but that wasn’t like him at all. The Flash was supposed to be kind. Considerate. Welcoming. That’s what every biography described him as, ever witness, every friend. _The Flash did everything he could for others. He would almost always rather make a friend before an enemy, no matter what they had done before,_ was what Iris West’s biography had said. The Flash had worked happily with other heroes before. So why did he automatically single out Eobard to stop from getting his powers, like this was a game of dodgeball back in high school gym class? Why would he stop him—u _nless he thought Eobard wasn’t worthy of having powers,_ a traitorous voice whispered in the back of his mind, one he hadn’t heard from in quite some time.“It doesn’t need another.” 

“You don’t have a monopoly on saving Central City,” Eobard lashed out. “It’s had other heroes. Maybe not before you, but definitely after. You were just the first, not even necessarily the best.” Little Eo Thawne would disagree, but little Eo Thawne was a stupid, lonely boy who had no friends but an imaginary man in red. 

“You think you could be better?” The Flash laughed, dark and cruel and underscored with a crackle of electricity. “Please. You’d play at being a hero, not actually be one. Some people just aren’t meant to be heroes, after all—even if they do have powers.” 

“I could be great,” he protested, but it sounded weak even to his own ears.

“You could be a fake.” The Flash countered. “Stop wasting your life on daydreams, Dr. Thawne. It’s unbecoming.” Then he straightened, and he looked a little like a god, or maybe a devil, electricity in his eyes and power radiating out of every inch of him. “I hope I won’t have to come here again,” he said, menacing, and disappeared in a trace of red. 

“Fuck,” Eobard murmured shakily, collapsing against the lab table. The Flash was right, like he always was. Eobard Thawne was never meant to be anything great. He used to know that. He used to know that, but then he met Barry, and Barry—Barry made him believe that he could be anything. 

Even if the Flash never thought that Eobard could be great, Barry did. In the end, who did Eobard trust more? If this had been a year ago, it would have been the Flash, no questions asked. But he hadn’t even known Barry a year ago, and he didn’t really know the Flash back then either. He knew who people thought the Flash was, he knew who Eobard wanted the Flash to be, but he didn’t know the Flash. He was beginning to realize that maybe the Flash wasn’t as good as he was remembered as being. History warped things, after all. The Flash had been remembered as a hero, but maybe he was the villain.

Heroes didn't go breaking people’s childhood dreams. Heroes helped people. Heroes were good. Heroes would break into your apartment to comfort you when you’re upset because your childhood idol tore your heart into a million pieces—heroes were far more like Barry Allen than they were the Flash. 

 

Barry only told Eo to stop because he was worried about him. Because Barry loved him. Barry was nothing like that cold, emotionless man who acted like he was a god, and the rest of the world mere mortals. Barry was good and warm and would never break Eobard’s heart. And if Barry Allen said _“You’d make a far better Flash than he ever could, Eobard,”_ Then Barry Allen had to be right.

He brought himself back onto his feet, stared at his experiments. He still had the magnifications of his blood cells projected onto the wall. The control was multiplying at a steady rate, just a fraction above the average. The blood which had the serum multiplied almost exponentially faster; the x elementals and electricity working just as it should. It was practically indistinguishable from the blood of the Flash, if his records were correct. 

He stared at the blood. This was his last test before practical trials. He had been planning to talk to Barry again before, but Barry wasn’t responding to him. And wouldn’t Barry prefer it ifEo was knocking on his door as a brand new speedster capable of keeping him and all of the city safe? Wouldn’t Barry prefer it if Eo appeared to him as hero, proving Barry right, and all the naysayers wrong? 

He filled a needle with the serum, a potent combination of dark molecules and adrenaline. he set himself down in a chair surrounded by tesla coils, ready to give him the requisite electric shock with a press of a button. He stared at that button, and almost pressed it— but faltered at the last minute. There were so many ways this could go wrong. So many. Just one thing could be miscalculated, and then he would be nothing but a fried husk that used to be known as Eobard Thawne. 

“Gideon,” he said, suddenly fearful. “On—on the event of my demise, please tell Gideon—that is, Captain Gideon, that I’m sorry _,_ and that I miss her.” 

“Professor Thawne, Captain Gideon is unreachable due to her current position in Deep Space. Is there anyone else you would like for me to contact?”

He sighed.“No, Gideon,” he said. “That will be all.” He went to press the button again, but stopped himself. He pulled out his communicator, instead. He called Barry, and—there was no answer. That was alright. Maybe that was better. It was easier, that way. “Barry. Hi.” Eobard said. “Listen, I just—I just wanted to say—you’re the best person I ever met, you know that? And—I love you. I don’t know if I’ve said that to you before. Maybe I have, I don’t know, but I just thought I’d tell you.” He bit his lip. “I love you,” he repeated again. He ended the call.

He pressed the syringe into his body, and the button for the electricity not too long after.

He screamed.

The pain was excruciating, but it was worth it, he tried to remind himself. If he tried hard enough, he could almost hear Barry talking to him. 

_“You’d make a far better Flash than he ever could, Eo.”_ Somehow, it sounded a little bit like _I love you, too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm late, I'm late, for a very important date! Sorry I took a while getting this one out here, guys.


	8. Cry to Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > When your baby leaves you all alone  
> And nobody call you on the phone  
> Don't you feel like crying  
> Don't you feel like crying?
>>
>>> Aka, in which my baby Eo Thawne suffers from extreme impostor syndrome and makes his first appearance as the Reverse Flash. 

The advanced metabolism didn’t make the cold go away, somehow. It should have, it was simple science. Eobard had questioned this for a second, and then let it be. It was a little like a fairytale; that old one by Andersen. The cold had just set into his bones, his soul, and it didn’t leave. His heart had iced over. There was nothing that could stop it, or make him warm again. Oh, there was a solution in the fairytale—(his heart stuttered at the thought, but then his lips tightened into a thin line, because that was more unlikely than having a warm, happy ending)—but this was no fairytale. 

He was being maudlin again.Perhaps this was a side effect of speed—it didn’t seem to be there before, and it wasn’t as if he could wander over to the Flash and ask. Besides, the Flash acting like Eobard did seemed almost unfathomable; the Flash never would have been prone to fits of self doubt and dark humor. No, the Flash would have been impulsive and overconfident, certain that he was making everything better when of course he was just making everything worse. 

Eobard's fists clenched at his sides. Thinking about the Flash didn’t do any good, anymore. He should have known that. The Flash was no hero. 

Eo could be, though. Or at least that’s what he told himself when he ran tests on his newfound powers, when he ran so fast that everything else seemed slow. That’s what he told himself when he tried on his costume. That’s what he told himself, when—(when the Flash’s words, unbidden, rose to his mind again: _You’d be a terrible speedster, Eobard;_ when he thought about calling Barry, in the middle of a snowy night. That’s what he told himself when he took all of his Flash memorabilia and shoved into the dark recesses of his closet and under his bed, because even looking at that began to hurt, pathetic as it was.) 

Eo could be a hero. He had the powers for it, after all. But—

He was afraid.

Not that he’d be hurt while doing so, no. In fact, he hadn’t felt so careless with his own well being in ages. But he was still afraid.

(In the night, the Flash’s voice found him, cold and mocking, _“you? You’d never make a good speedster.”_ )

He was plagued by the idea that this was a childhood dream taken too far, that he’d run out there in a blur of yellow and somehow they’d know he wasn’t meant for it. He needed to save this city from the Flash, but he couldn’t—he couldn’t—

It wasn’t like he was a superhero of old, where they found their powers through an accident of fate; he made his powers, engineered them. He wasn’t a true superhero. 

A quiet voice sounded in the back of his mind, saying: _if Barry were here, he’d say that would make you a better hero. A more dedicated one. He’d say “Some are born great, some have greatness thrust upon them, but some achieve greatness through effort, and that makes you all the better for it,”_ but Barry wasn’t here. Barry wasn’t here, because Barry had been ignoring him for weeks on end, because Barry probably ran off when he realized that Eo was obsessed enough to try and give himself powers like the Flash’s. Because Barry didn’t love Eo like Eo loved him; because, like with everything, Eo threw his undying adoration at him without attempting to filter it, and it was too much and too strong and pitiful and childish all at once—

He was being melancholic again. If Gideon were here, she’d tell him to stop being “such a dramatic, Flash obsessed idiot,” and ruffle his hair. But of course, Gideon wasn’t here, either. Gideon was off in deep space, because she obviously wanted to get as far away from Eobard as possible. (He knew, in the back of his mind, that wasn’t true; it wasn’t that Gideon wanted to get away from Eobard, but that her love of the stars had to trump her love of him. He understood that, of course he did, his love for Flash had once been the same, but— he didn’t love the Flash anymore. And she was gone, for what seemed like an age. If she ever came back at all.)

Hartley and Cisco were gone too, off on vacation in Bali, and even if they were here, even though they had known Barry for shorter the time, it was almost like they were more Barry’s friends than Eobard’s. If Barry disappeared on him, they likely would too. That was the problem with Barry: everyone loved him. He was too easy to love, and he loved so easily in return. It felt impossible to be as special to him as he was to you. 

Everyone was gone. Eobard's small group of friends, of people he loved, all disappeared into the wind like they were nothing but dust. 

He needed to stop being so overdramatic, he knew. He needed to calm down and cheer himself up, to go out and do something, anything, but test his powers and mope. If he did that, he’d never become the hero this city needed. He’d just waste away, in his mediocrity. 

No. Eobard had powers, and he was going to use them. Maybe he wouldn’t be the best hero this city had, but he’d be better than the current one, who was simply a villain masquerading as a hero. Maybe he’d fail, because he wasn’t strong enough yet, but that didn’t mean that he always would, once he practiced more. At the very least, he would succeed in one thing: making the world find out that the Flash was a fraud, that he was cruel and cold and nothing like everyone else said he would be. 

He would be the hero this city needed, even if he wouldn’t necessarily be the one that they wanted. 

He’d be the opposite of the Flash. He’d be—the _Reverse_. 

He dropped his coffee mug, and didn’t even think to save it from crashing to the ground. _The Reverse Flash,_ he thought, as the cup shattered on the floor. The Reverse Flash. 

For a moment, his heart stopped in his chest. The world slowed, but his mind raced faster and faster and faster. If he became the Reverse Flash, knowing of the Reverse Flash’s existence, then that would preclude the idea of time loops. And if time loops could exist, then who was to say that the Flash wouldn’t have been so cruel not because the Flash was cruel but because the Flash was trying to stop him from becoming the Reverse Flash—

But no, that was impossible. There was hardly a chance in the world that the timeline could sustain that large of a time loop. Small things, of course, but the larger it got the more unstable the paradox and the more likely for an alternate universe to split off. 

Still, some of him was upset at the idea—oh, of course Eo had loved the Reverse Flash best out of all the villains as a child, but that was because he always loved to see the Flash triumph over him. The Reverse Flash was evil, this was as obvious as the sky being blue. But if the Flash wasn’t a hero, then maybe the Reverse wasn’t the villain. 

A part of him was pleased at the thought of it, a part of Eo that both adored the Flash and hated him.The part that hated the Flash was happy; the Flash would always have to live with knowing that it was the Flash’s fault that Eobard became his worst enemy. The Flash would have to know that Eobard would go down in history, the Flash would have to live with the fact that Eobard would always be known as being just as good as the Flash—maybe even better.

The part that loved him would be ecstatic, their names would forever be combined. And If Eobard was known as the Reverse Flash, then obviously Eobard couldn’t be a failure. The Reverse Flash was the Flash’s most formidable enemy—his best enemy, as Eobard had always thought.

* * *

 

It took him weeks of practice, of testing his speed on snow and ice and carefully tuning his communicator so that it would pick up police frequencies and alarm him to them, before Eobard made his first appearance. He wasn’t planning on it being anything special, at first; as a new superhero, he had wanted to start small. 

But he wasn’t going to be a new superhero, anymore. He was going to be the Reverse Flash. And the Reverse Flash deserved a bit of dramatic flair for his first public appearance, not just mysteriously rescuing kittens from trees until he became an urban legend. No, he was going to be the Reverse Flash, and when the Reverse Flash appeared, it would be like a smack in the Flash’s face. He’d show up at a disaster, and save the day before the Flash even got there. He’d show the world that it was the Flash who was the fraud, not him. 

It was a Thursday when he finally revealed himself to the world, and the sky was white with unshed snowflakes. It was one of those days when the air was so cold it seemed thin, but for the first time in a long time, it didn’t bother him. He felt—well, not quite warm. But he had a purpose now, an irrefutable purpose that kept him from freezing over. It was still cold, but he could survive.

(He noted, vaguely, that the cold weather could be stopped by the environmental controls surrounding the city, the ones that stopped any disastrous storms coming their way, but they didn’t. Central had always been too sentimental for that.) 

Still, his breath frosted in front of him when he stopped outside with his suit underneath his jacket, an almost unfamiliar glee making his heart pound in double time. He was going to do it. He would show the world how terrible the Flash could be—how incompetent. He’d reclaim the name of the Reverse Flash and use it for a greater goal. 

He took a deep breath, and ducked into an alleyway to unzip his jacket. It was time. If his sources were right, a fire had just broken out at Central City High School. Three thousand kids went to that school, and who would be there to save them? _The Reverse Flash,_ he thought, and a mixture of electricity and excitement jolted through him. Not the Flash. Not the Justice League. Eobard Thawne, the Reverse Flash.  
He took another shaking breath, the thought being better, of _winning_ heady in his mind. But it wasn’t over yet. He still had to save the day, and do it before the Flash could. Which of course would be helped by the few obstacles he had set around the city; nothing dangerous, neither to the general public nor to the Flash, but a few speed traps rigged to slow him down, just a little a bit. (Not stop him entirely, oh no. After all, the Flash needed to see that Eobard could save the day, could be every bit the hero that the Flash was, and maybe better.)

He steadied himself, breathed again. And then—he ran. 

Central City High School was in the center of the city. Eobard hadn’t gone there—his parents insisted on private schools all his life—but he knew the way, and running there was as easy and instantaneous as breathing. 

When he got there, he stopped. Ever since the school’s redesign in the late twenty-first century, it had been rated one of the most beautiful building’s in the city, and the most historic. It hadn’t ever been updated since, other than maintenance and restoration projects. It was an unquestionable part of the city’s skyline, a gleaming white building in the neoclassical architecture style, more like a bank than a high school. 

Even ablaze, it still looked just as pretty. 

Then a reporter caught wind of him and called out, loud enough to shake him out of his reverie. He was here for a reason. He needed to save everyone inside.

He ran. Most of the students had already been evacuated from the building, but it was built more as a status symbol than a functional building; there were still a full class of children trapped inside a flaming corridor. There were wreathes of flame several feet high, tall enough to make him consider not running through them. Oh, his suit was built to withstand immense heat and friction, but he didn’t exactly want to tempt fate. Nor was the skin bared by his mask capable of resisting flames. 

The walls began to creak with pressure; he needed to think fast. The school was old, the usual materials were far more resistant. If he didn’t come up with a way to save them now, he’d only have minutes left before maybe the entire building collapsed. And then, not only would he have failed to show the Flash that he could be a hero, but he’d also be responsible for the deaths of several teenagers. 

His heart pounded. He could just run through, and risk the severe burns and possible blinding. There was no other way to approach the classroom, unless he wanted to run through a wall—

Unless he wanted to run through a wall. The Flash could phase through objects, Eobard had seen him do so. Eobard had even tried to, a couple of times. He managed to get through once. And if the Flash could do it, he could do it. Worse came to worse, he would just run through the flame.

He took a breath. Though the walls were almost renowned for being flimsier than most, they certainly looked solid right now. He shook his head. He wouldn’t let that bother him. He’d beat the Flash. He’d do it. He closed his eyes; he ran. 

When he opened his eyes again, he was standing in a room of frightened teenagers, huddled against a wall. 

“Don’t worry,” he said, though everything felt a little far away. “I’m here to save you.” 

One by one, he brought them all outside. And by the time the building caved in, the only thing that was harmed was some old lab equipment. He stopped and stared at it, and he felt almost dizzy. He had saved those people's lives. He was a hero. He was a _hero_.

 

Reporters shouted questions at him, cameras flashed in a blinding, excited light.  
“Who are you,” they asked. “A new speedster? The Flash?”

In front of them, a red blur skidded to a stop. The Flash turned to look at him, something like betrayal shining in his eyes. The reporters grew more frantic in their questioning, the cameras almost whirring as they moved so fast. 

He met the Flash's eyes unflinchingly. “I’m not like the Flash,” Eobard said, in front of the cameras and the Flash and all sundry. “Some might say I’m the Reverse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaa i know i know I'm late (again). My laptop has been, well, riding the struggle bus lately, the poor little thing. Anyway!!! I hope that you all enjoyed the chapter and that you all have a merry christmas/ other winter holiday! Hooray! This awful year is almost over! Anyway, hope this fic helps tide you through the winter hiatus. :)


	9. I Will Survive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > At first I was afraid, I was petrified  
> Kept thinking I could never live without you by my side  
> But then I spent so many nights thinking how you did me wrong  
> And I grew strong  
> And I learned how to get along
>> 
>> -
>> 
>> Weren't you the one who tried to hurt me with goodbye  
> Do you think I'd crumble  
> Did you think I'd lay down and die?  
> Oh no, not I, I will survive
>>
>>>  

“In other news, the Flash has made his first appearance on a global scale when he helped the Justice League fight off an alien invasion before the alien troops could even land in New York. Is this a new start for him as part of the renowned Justice League?” A news anchor said.

“I don’t know, Nathalia, but this is hardly the only important thing going on with the Flash lately. Just last week the Flash was too late to save a class of biology students in the Central City High School fire, but somebody else came to save the day—somebody who is supposed to be the most famous villain in all of history!”

“Central City history, at least.” The reporter laughed. “That’s the question that’s been plaguing our minds lately, hasn’t it? Who is the Reverse Flash? Why’s he in Central City? And most importantly of all, why choose to go by the name of not just a villain, but _the_ villain.”

“Alright, that’s about all the time that we have for today. This is Nathalia Vane, and you’re watching Cat Co. News.” 

Eobard flicked the hologram projector off. He didn’t need to hear any of that. He’d be seeing the Flash again soon enough—maybe even today. He’d already made a stunning debut as a hero—there was a hedonistic sort of thrill that went through him when he heard himself be talked about on live television—but that was nowhere near the end. The Flash had hardly even been there, and Eobard was only faster because the Flash had fallen into one of his speed traps. No, Eobard needed to beat him fair and square. He needed to show that he was not just better than the Flash, but that he was objectively better than the Flash. Faster, smarter, more heroic.

He breathed, and fiddled with the ring on his finger. A clever little contraption, Gideon had helped him put it together. It’d help him keep his costume with him at all times without the dreadful impracticalities of wearing it twenty-four seven. Ugh. Just the thought of it made Eobard wrinkle his nose. Of course, with his speed, he could get his suit from anywhere in the city within a matter of seconds, but in his line of work, seconds were everything. 

He set his communicator to pick up police frequencies. It was about time that the Flash face his reverse properly. He had three hours before his next lecture. Surely something would happen by then.

…Nothing happened by then. The time passed agonizingly slowly, and uncommonly peacefully. The most that happened were a few parking violations, nothing more, and Eobard was almost tempted to go and fix those just to do _something_. 

By the end of the three hours, he was an expert in police station gossip, but the reverse Flash hadn’t appeared. Maybe he’d go out there and just pick a fight with the Flash, he pondered, nearly driven out of his mind by boredom. That’d be something. 

But—his alarm went off before he could. Right. He had classes to teach. He wouldn’t just quit his job to take on the Flash full time, that’d be ridiculous.

* * *

 

By the time he got to work, he was definitely not in a good mood. The fact that he had lost his tests was not helping, nor was the fact that his former Flash obsession turned out to be contagious.

“Flash! Flash!” The reporters shouted from the news hologram. “Why didn’t you get to the Central High fire in time? Where were you? Why did the Reverse Flash appear in your place?” 

“Shut that off, would you?” Eobard grumbled, stepping into the room. 

“Shush, Thawne, I’m watching this.” Alfred frowned.

“I’m afraid the answer’s a bit embarrassing.” the Flash laughed, and it sounded almost demonic from the way his voice vibrated. “I was caught in a speed trap along broadway and fourth. Normally, these things have a sort of flaw to them, and I’d be able to fight my way out with no problem, but this one—it was perfect. It was as if it had been made by a speedster, or at least someone who works very closely with one.”

“Ah, god, can you believe this? I knew that Reverse was up to no good.” Alfred shook his head. “How petty can you get, putting people in danger because you want to show up the Flash? Awful.”

“He didn’t say anything about it being the Reverse who set them up,” Eobard said testily. Admittedly, they were his. Admittedly, they were there because he wanted to show up the Flash. 

“Why else would he choose the name of a villain? Please, Thawne, for as many comic books as you read, you think you’d understand that the only people who name themselves after villains are villains.”

“Maybe he’s trying to reclaim it.”

“Yeah. Sure, reclaiming it.” He rolled his eyes. “I’d have thought you would be loving this, Thawne,” Alfred said. “It’s just like all those comic books you read, isn’t it? The Flash and The Reverse, fighting in the streets of Central City?” 

“Hm?” he shuffled the papers haphazardly strewn about his desk. He had those tests somewhere, didn’t he? “Oh. Yeah. I suppose.” 

“It certainly has Bruce all excited. He’s suddenly decided that he wants to be a superhero when he grows up, of all things.”

“That’s great,” he said distractedly, grabbing his tests from his desk. 

“Yeah, sure, real great.” Alfred rolled his eyes. “Boys will be boys, I guess.”Then Alfred glanced at him. “Hey, Thawne?”

“Yes, Alfred?” He huffed.

“Are you feeling alright? You look…tired.”

“I’m fine.”

Alfred was silent for a moment. “If you say so.”

Eobard went to proctor his exam in peace. 

* * *

He did, of course, end up seeing the Flash again. It couldn’t stay uncommonly calm for too long, not in Central City. Metahumans came along, like they always did, coming into their powers in a rush of adrenaline and hatred, tearing the city apart in their rage.

The day he fought against the Flash,there was a metahuman with metal powers terrorizing the city, but—when he looked at the Flash, it was like the metahuman wasn’t even there at all. It was a competition instead: Eobard sped the civilians out of there, and dodged the flying pieces of metal, always trying to be one step ahead. After all, what was some nameless villain in comparison to the Flash? 

Just like every other day in his life, the Flash was the most important thing in it. But—the Flash didn’t exactly see it as an amicable competition against heroes. The Flash saw it as a fight in the making. Eobard probably should’ve expected that, but he didn’t. 

So, when he dodged into one direction, speeding a man to safety, he didn’t expect for the Flash to shove him to the side when he ran off to face the meta. Eobard tripped, falling in a mess and scuffing up his face with minor abrasions that had already begun to heal. “I told you to stop your experiments,” the Flash said, staring down at him,and his voice vibrated with the anger of a thunderstorm about to break loose. “I told you that you would get yourself hurt and that you would fail. You didn’t listen to me.”

“You don’t control me,” Eobard said. 

“That’s not—” the Flash broke off, his hands clenching into fists at his side. “You should have listened.”

“I don’t belong to you, Flash, and neither does this city,” he hissed. “I can protect it just as well as you can.”

“But you can’t, and that’s the problem.” The Flash said, “now I have to stop you.”

“Stop me?” Eobard said, and rage began to boil in his veins. Stop him, as if he were a petulant child having a tantrum. Stop him, as if he didn’t have the exact same powers as the Flash, as if the Flash hadn’t started out exactly like him. 

“You’re no hero.” The Flash said, so damn _certain._ “You know that. Otherwise why would you choose the Reverse Flash as your name? You aren’t meant for this. You know it.” 

“I’m just as much of a hero as you are,” Eobard protested, but it felt like a lie. The Flash had years of experience and centuries of precedence, the Flash was everyone’s hero. Eobard—Eobard had the name of a villain and the experience of a child, homemade powers and hero-worship gone wrong. But— “Maybe even more of a hero than you are.”—the Flash was the real villain, after all.

“Stop deluding yourself. You’re not cut out for this. Go home before you get yourself killed,” the Flash said, and then sped off to stop the meta without even a dismissive goodbye. 

Eobard dragged himself to his feat. Maybe he should just leave. Maybe the Flash was right. But—giving in meant that the Flash definitely was right. Giving in meant that the Flash won, that the Flash would always win, because if Eobard didn’t prove himself now, he never would. 

He looked at the Flash. He dusted off suit. He ran. 

He ran faster than he had ever ran before, with singleminded focus. The world around him slowed down, so much that even the Flash seemed a bit slower than normal as Eobard ran towards him and snatched the metahuman straight out of his arms, clicking power draining handcuffs around the metahuman’s wrists. “Maybe you ought to catch up with the times, Flash,” he said. “Just because they didn’t exist when you were at your peak doesn’t mean they can’t be helpful.”

He pushed the meta in the direction of the CCPD, and sped away.

* * *

 

“This just in, the Justice League has announced that the Flash is now an official member of the crime fighting organization.” The holoprojector was barely on for a second before Eobard flicked it off again.

It was official. The Flash had joined the Justice League. Eobard didn’t know _why_ , there was no reason why legitimate heroes would spend time with a condescending jerk. Except, of course, the obvious reason of childhood hero worship and not knowing any better. 

They could be excused from their downfalls, he decided. Eobard hard fallen for the same thing. He’d just have to show them how unfit the Flash really was. He’d done it before, after all. He could do it again.

* * *

 

He didn’t actually see the Flash for some time after the metal meta debacle. Oh, Eobard made appearances—he was far from inactive There was a lot of free time in his agenda; all he had these days were his lectures, so he spent all the rest as the Reverse Flash. 

Of course, even in his lectures, he began to wish he were spending his time doing something else. He began to hate going to his classes, droning on and on about the same principles, the same subjects.

Some days, he thought of opening up a lab. He'd never really been attracted to it before, the blue blooded celebrity of tech ingenues too much for him, but he began thinking about it more and more. Maybe he’d even nameit STAR Labs, after the famous laboratory which created all metahumans. (The famous laboratory which created the Flash, a traitorous voice murmured in his ear.)

But starting a lab would take even more time away from being a hero, and that would be no help at all. So he’d stick to his lectures and his students, and slip away during his lunch hours to go and be the Reverse. 

He didn’t see the Flash, but the Flash was busy being part of the Justice League, and probably breaking other people’s dreams, too. That was fine. The Flash would return, like he always did, and in the meantime, Eobard would show Central just how good of a hero he could be, even without the Flash to fight against. 

Hehad been on his way back to his apartment when a blonde girl in a cape stopped in front of him. Supergirl, National City’s darling. “You know,” she said. “I’ve heard of you.”

“Everyone has,” Eobard said. “I’m the Reverse Flash.”

“Exactly.” She said. “But why would you want to be that? Out of all the things you could choose to be, you chose the most notorious villain?” She crossed her arms, and her face wasn’t like the sweet, optimistic Supergirl he had seen in Jimmy Olson’s photographs. It was calculating, and cold. “Why.”

It hardly felt like a question. “I don’t have to explain my choices to you,” he said, and regretted it the moment it left his lips. It wouldn’t be good to get the entire Justice League against him; he wanted to bring down the Flash. The League had nothing to do with this. The League wasn’t evil. He opened his mouth to explain, but then—

“Word around town says that you set that fire yourself, you know. The one at the high school. To make yourself look good. And that’s how you knew where to set your speed traps.” 

_What_? “Who told you that,” he growled. “The Flash?” It would be the Flash, wouldn’t it, expecting the worst from him, never imagining that maybe, just maybe, Eobard Thawne might be better, smarter, _faster_ than him. 

“It doesn’t matter who,” she said. “What matters is we don’t know you. And we don’t trust what we don’t know—especially when someone decides to brand themselves as a supervillain.”

“I assume that when you say _we_ , you mean the League.”

Her silence was more telling than anything. “What do you want here,” she said instead. It wasn’t a question.

“I want to beat the Flash,” he answered.

“Beat the Flash?” She said, “why?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” He said.

“No, it’s not.”

“Well, maybe you’re not looking hard enough.” He said, in lieu of, _he’s the real villain,_ and _I had adored him once and he tore that to shreds,_ and _he’s cold and cruel and he doesn’t care about a single person in this century, if he ever cared for anyone at all._

“Last I checked, the Flash didn’t decide to brand himself a villain.”

Only because there weren’t any villains to brand himself after.

“Maybe you ought to rethink your motives.”

“Maybe you ought to rethink your friends.”

Supergirl sighed and shook her head before she flew away.

Eobard went home.


	10. Unchained Melody

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > Oh my love, my darling  
> I've hungered for your touch  
> A long lonely time  
> And time goes by so slowly  
> And time can do so much
>>
>>>  

The Justice League didn’t think he was a hero. Fine. Eobard could deal with that. They’d learn the error of their ways eventually, he knew. The Flash would betray them, just like the Flash betrayed everyone.

Eo could wait until he did, and then the League would come running to him. He knew this. He could do this. 

That didn’t mean that the waiting wasn’t tedious, though. He flicked on the holoprojector. 

“I’m just saying, I don’t know if I trust this Reverse Flash!” A man argued. “If a man came into your house saying that he’s the Joker, would you trust him to save you from burglars, or run and call the police?” 

He turned off the news. He had to have a movie around here somewhere. Something that wasn’t Flash related. Something to take his mind off of things.

There had to be something. But no—there was only the Flash. _The Flash Returns, The Flash and The Rogues, Central’s Hero, Flash, Flash 2: Flash to the Future, The Flash and The Reverse._ His hand closed along the last one before he could stop himself. Barry and him had seen it, on their first date. Back when everything felt new. Back when Barry cared about him, before Eo had chased him away with his obsession with the Flash. He almost thought about watching it again, for old times sake. It would have been a perfect pick-me-up, he knew, it was written exactly the way he liked it; overly hopeful, with the both of them teaming up at the end to fight an even more threatening villain. Just like the Flash films of his childhood. 

He’d bought the movie months ago, thinking that Barry might enjoy reliving their first date; thinking how nice it’d be to curl up on the couch, to have Barry in his arms and a Flash film on in the background. But that was ages ago. Before Barry disappeared into radio silence, before he learned about the true colors of the Flash. 

He dropped the box back in the pile. 

He went to bed early that night. 

* * *

He went to work. Cisco and Hartley were probably back from their vacation now, he knew. He didn’t go and see them.

He did, however, see them across the hall, at one point. Well—Cisco was laughing. Hartley had the small smile on his face that meant he was trying not to laugh. 

Barry was with them. 

Eobard’s heart stuttered in his chest. The world slowed down, and Eobard wasn’t sure if it was from his speed or not. Barry was there, and it was just like the day Eobard first saw him: Barry was beautiful and perfect and the only thing Eobard could feel was inadequate in the face of him. 

Eobard should have been angry, he knew. Any other time, he would have been. He would have wanted to march up there and ask him why he just disappeared, why he just never responded—did Barry just not care? Or was Eobard just that forgettable. He should have felt something other than painful longing, other than pitiful love that never seemed to go away. He should’ve remembered how Barry hurt him, but he couldn’t. Barry was there, and Barry was beautiful and—Barry didn’t want him.

Eobard couldn’t fault him for that, he supposed. 

* * *

He had to get himself out of this rut. He had to do something properly. He had to—he had to beat the Flash.  He might not have anything else, but at least he had that. If he could beat the Flash, he would be fine. He would be fine.

Or at least, that was what he tried to convince himself into believing, when the nights grew colder and darker and the world was too slow and too fast all at once. When he could feel the world spinning, when his breath came too quick for any normal medical instrument to read, when it all was too much and he needed something to ground him,he remembered the Flash. He remembered his hatred. 

He remembered that if the only thing he did with his life was beat the Flash, then he’d be a hero. Maybe not everyone would see it that way, but the history books would get it right eventually. 

But, a quiet voice whispered, if he didn’t end up beating the Flash, what was the point of him at all? 

But he would beat the Flash, he told himself, he’d beat the Flash even if he had to go out looking for a fight.

Of course—he didn’t actually have to. Like an answer to his prayers, Gideon announced that there was a situation in the Central City bank—a metahuman gone rogue. Not, of course, an actual Rogue, of Captain Cold’s famous Rogues, they had all died centuries ago, but the principle was still the same.

He suited up, and ran as quick as he could. 

It hadn’t occurred to him until he got there, that Gideon said it was a problem because it defied definition. 

The metahuman hovered amongst vaulted ceilings, above the mass hysteria below. Flames grew higher and higher, winds whipped people back and forth and even Eobard had difficulty had trouble doing anything against it. Lightning struck out from the metahuman’s fingertips—Eobard was just barely able to grab a hostage out of the way before it struck. 

The Justice League was here already, but their attempts at help were doing about as much as Eo’s were—actually, less. Only a speedster would be able to get any of the people out, with the strength of the wind, the speed of her lightning. 

 

The world moved in a blur. It all happened so fast, even for him. There were so many people. It seemed impossible to get them all out in time. Where was the Flash? The thought flew into his mind crazily, desperately, like a prayer or a plea. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, there was a part of him that still expected the Flash to save him. A part of him that was still the same ten-year-old visiting the Flash museum for the first time, a part of him that looked at the Flash and saw hope instead of lies—that part still clung to him cloyingly, unable to be forgotten. But the Flash wasn’t here. There was only Eo who could save them, and he had to. He had to. 

He squared his shoulders against the bracing wind, and he ran. He ran, and he ran, and he ran, even though he knew it wouldn’t be enough. 

* * *

Heroes couldn’t save everyone. Eo knew this, of course. But—knowing and _knowing_ were completely different things.

She had been a silly girl with big eyes and bigger dreams, and now she was dead. She went to Central City U, even, he’d heard. He might’ve had her in one of his classes. Well, maybe not. She was an astrophysics major, and their disciplines didn’t really intermingle, but she could’ve been. Maybe she would’ve graduated and gone to the stars with Gideon, maybe she would’ve invented interstellar communication. But it didn’t really matter what she might’ve done. She wouldn’t do it anymore. And it was Eobard’s fault.

All Eobard's fault, because if the Flash had been there, he probably would've saved her. ( _No he wouldn't have,_ a bitter part of himself whispered,) but the Flash had been stuck in another one of those damn speed traps of his, even though Eobard had thought he had destroyed all of them.

A tell tale rush of air signified the arrival of Supergirl. “The Green Lantern.” 

“What?”

“It was the Green Lantern who said he thought you started the fire at the high school,” she said, “and somehow I’m inclined to believe him.”

He wanted to call out to her, angry and hurt, and ask her why it was just him that was evil, when other superheroes had lost people. But he knew why: it was because he was the Reverse Flash. Because he set those speed traps on the Flash, and because he had been selfish enough to think that being better than the Flash was more important than having another speedster there to save lives. 

* * *

 

_The Reverse Flash, Public Enemy Number One?_ The words were scrawled on a banner across the bottom of the hologram. It was hardly the first sentiment like it that he heard, but that didn’t mean it didn’t still hurt. 

“The man is a menace! How long until the rest of us are collateral damage, in his petty war against the Flash!” One of the newscasters argued, red in the face. “He doesn’t even make sense! He pretends to be a hero, while choosing to become a villain. No, I think this whole hero business is just a front. I think that while he’s off pretending to be a hero, he’s planning something. And I’ll tell you this, it’s not going to be pretty.”

“Turn that off,” Eobard said, his hands going white knuckled around his coffee mug.

“What’s the matter with you today, Thawne?” Alfred frowned at him.

“Alfred. Turn it off.”

The holoprojector flickered off. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” He said, and it felt like a lie.

* * *

 

The world grew impossibly colder; January had sunk its claws into him, with a chill that felt like it would never leave. He tried not to watch the news these days. 

He had tried, once, to appear as the Reverse Flash—the neighbor girl’s kitten got stuck up a tree, honest to god, and he figured he might as well go get it, it wasn’t like there was anything else to do.

It took less then a second to grab the cat and present it to the girl, but the look on her face made it look like he had strangled it instead of saved it. “You’re welcome,” he had said, and the cat jumped out of his arms. 

The girl grabbed the kitten with shaking hands, and stared at him with wide, terrified eyes, before she turned and ran.

Was this what he was, now? As frightening as the monster hiding under little kids’ beds?

His hands closed into fists. He closed his eyes. He counted to ten. He told himself that soon, everything would be alright. The world would realize that it was the Flash who was evil, the Flash who should be the monster in children’s dreams, and that Eobard was the hero. He reminded himself that even if he ended up doing nothing else with his life, as long as he beat the Flash, it would be worth it. That he would be worth something. That it wasn’t just a futile exercise in monotony and pain. 

If he took down the Flash, it would all be worth it. Even if—

Even if it meant making himself a villain in the process.

 


	11. How Can You Mend A Broken Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > I can think of younger days  
> When living for my life  
> Was everything a man could want to do  
> I could never see tomorrow  
> But no one said a word about the sorrow
>>
>>>  

The weather warmed, so he was told. Oh, the bracing winds stopped, and it no longer snowed, but the weather that replaced it was a rainy gray that turned all the snow to mush and did nothing to thaw the ice in his heart.

The sun peaked out from behind the clouds. He debated with himself. The Flash had been spotted along Seventh and Roosevelt, and there was nothing left to stop Eobard from going after him,but, he waited. There was no turning back, if he did this. He had to be sure. If he changed his mind, if he decided that perhaps he had been wrong, no one would ever accept him. If it ever got out who he was, he’d be ruined.

But—that was already the case, wasn’t it? Everyone already saw him as a villain. He’d just be living up to expectations, if he did this. He wasn’t going to change his mind, either, not after what the Flash had done, not after the Justice League turned against him, too. 

He had to do this. He was going to do this. 

The Flash was untrustworthy and cruel, and Eobard should have been jumping for the chance to fight him, so why was he hesitating? His hands closed into fists. The sun darted back behind the clouds. He breathed. 

He owed the Flash nothing. Nothing. He hated him. The Flash was a heartbreaker and a villain, and Eobard hated him. Except—

There was a part of him that didn’t really hate the Flash. A part of him that kept expecting for it all to be some joke, or a meta that put him under a spell, or something like the Bizarro incident that happened in National City. A part of him still expected the Flash of his childhood dreams to pop out and apologize, to ask him to be his partner in the Justice League. 

But that was never going to happen. This wasn’t some imposter, there was no speedster equivalent of red Kryptonite — and even if there was, the real Flash, the Flash that Eobard grew up loving, would want him to fight it. The Flash that Eobard loved would have told him to fight back, to show this Flash that Eobard Thawne was so much better than the Flash could ever know. 

He had to do it. He had to. It wasn’t like anyone else would. 

It wasn’t like he hadn’t hurt anyone before, either. He hurt criminals as the Reverse Flash. The Flash was a criminal. It wouldn’t be any different, but—a part of him still balked at the idea of hitting the Flash.

He sighed, and stopped fiddling with his Reverse Flash ring. “Gideon,” he said, “Turn on the news broadcast.”

“Certainly, Professor Thawne.” 

The hologram flickered to life, Eobard braced himself. _The Flash saves Central in a feat of heroics,_ ran across the bottom of the image. “Once again, the Flash saves us all,” a cheery newscaster began, “it’s almost like a brand new age of heroism has began in Central City.” 

“It certainly does seem like that, doesn’t it,” the other reporter laughed. “But with every hero there’s a villain, and the Flash also has his.” 

“The Reverse Flash,” she said. “The Flash’s most prolific villain.”

“And the most recent! What sort of plans is he up to, do you think, and is Central City well enough equipped to take on a recurring super villain?”

“You know I have the utmost faith in the CCPD, as well as the Flash.” The newscaster said, "certainly one of them will take down the Reverse before he can be classed as recurring?" 

"It's the _Reverse_ ," The other newscaster stressed. "The worst villain that Central has ever known."

“That’s enough, Gideon,” Eobard said, jaw tight.The hologram flickered off. 

“Professor Thawne, it might be practical to wait before making decisions like this—”

“No, Gideon,” He said, hands closing into fists. “I know what I need to do. I just needed the reminder.”

“Professor—”

“I don’t even know why I waited this long, really,” he said. “To hesitate is just superfluous. We all knew I was going to fight him.”

“Professor, I really don’t think—”

“I am the Reverse Flash, after all.” He twisted his ring around his finger, took one last look at the Central City skyline, and ran off in a streak of yellow.

* * *

 

It was funny, how unprepared the Flash was when Eobard flung his hand into the Flash’s face. The Flash stumbled backwards, dropping the metahuman he had restrained in front of him. “You,” the Flash said, hand cradling his cheek. “What are you doing?”

“I’m your villain, Flash,” he said. “You should know that.”

“This isn’t—this isn’t like you.”

“You know nothing about me,” he said, and punched the Flash again. 

The Flash stuttered backwards again, Blood dripping from the gashes on his face as he raised his head to stare at Eobard.

Eobard raised his hands again. The Flash stared at him, face impassive and cold even through the speed distortion. “You don’t want to do this.”

“Funny,” Eobard said. “ I think I do.” 

He went to hit him again. 

This time, the Flash fought back.

* * *

 

“What did I tell you, Thawne. He’s a menace,” Alfred proclaimed smugly, crossing his arms as he stood in front of Eobard’s desk. 

“Yes, you’re right, he’s fighting the Flash now,” Eobard said. “Doesn’t make him a menace.”

“The meta that the Flash was fighting almost went away free because of him!”

“Almost.” Eobard huffed. “I’m certain that the Reverse took precautions so that he wouldn’t. He did help put the metahumans away before this, you know.”

“Well, yeah, but we all knew it’s only been about the Flash for him.” Alfred scoffed. “It’s _the Reverse._ What else would it have been about?”

_Being the hero that the Flash has never been,_ he wanted to argue, but that was saying too much, and would only make the problem worse. He took a deep breath, and counted to ten. His nails bit into the palms of his hands. Calm. He had to calm down. 

“Thawne, are you okay?" Alfred said, "I know I've been asking you this a lot lately, but you don't look alright."

He breathed. “Never better,” he said, and it almost didn’t feel like a lie.

 

* * *

 

He went home that night, a bundle of nerves and anxious energy. He couldn’t just survive off of Flash sightings, and piggybacking off of other rogue metahumans. No, if Eobard was going to do this, he was going to embrace this wholly. He needed grandiose plans and dramatic speeches, to live up to the name of the Reverse Flash. 

If he was going to be a super villain, he might as well be the most memorable super villain there ever was. He wouldn’t hurt anyone—but he would lure the Flash to him. He wouldn’t wait. 

He ran, and he attracted as much attention as he could. The Flash would come to him eventually, he knew. The Flash hated him almost as much as he hated the Flash, probably because Eobard was a reminder of things that Eobard hadn’t even done yet. 

True to his hypothesis, the Flash showed up, righteous and raging. The fight that ensued needed no foreplay; there were no lengthy monologues, or dramatic reencounters. Instead, Eobard slammed his hand into the Flash’s teeth, arms scrambling for purchase as they fought and dodged, all at speeds impossible to track with the naked eye. 

He hit him, and for one peaceful moment, the pain felt like penance. His knuckles came away bloody, and the Flash struck him so hard that it ached, and it almost felt right. The Flash and the Reverse, locked in eternal combat, throughout all of history.  

It was only after the police arrived, and Eobard had to run back home, that the guilt began to penetrate him. The adrenaline left his system. He almost wondered, in the back of his mind, if he was doing the right thing. But that was almost certainly born out of childish hero worship and not out of any sense of logic, and ought to be pushed away. 

When he arrived at home, trembling, bruisedand beaten, he fell onto his couch with enough force that it crashed into the wall. A book fell off the shelf—he caught it with ease. _Basic Chronology Principles,_ it read, and in smaller print, _Time Travel Theories for Kids of All Ages._

He remembered this book. His parents had gotten it for him when he was a child. It was a collectors item even then; paper books hadgone out of print ages ago. Still, Eobard loved the concept of losing track of time in an book, liked the feel of paper in his hands, and his parents had always been indulgent. It helped, of course, that the book was on a carefully considered field of study, well-known enough to be prestigious, groundbreaking enough to be challenging. Nothing less would suffice for the Thawne family.

Of course, that wasn’t the reason why Eobard ended up loving chronology. No, Eobard hadn’t even liked chronology because he could fantasize about having tea with Churchill, or debating philosophy with Washington. Eobard loved chronology because of the Flash. He used to dream, when he was younger, that if he just knew more of the variables involved, then one day he could figure out just when the Flash disappeared to. And if he knew what time period the Flash disappeared to, maybe, just maybe, Eobard could find a way to meet him.

Now Eobard had met the Flash. It had been vastly disappointing. 

Still— he curled his arms protectively around the book—if there was one thing he wasn’t going to let the Flash take from him, it was chronology. Hell, with Eobard’s powers, he could even time travel now himself. He didn’t need the Flash to see the value in that. He could meet a English pilot from World War II,or see his favorite president be inaugurated. Or—for testing purposes only, of course—he might—He might be able to see Barry again. Barry from back when things weren’t tense. Barry who loved him, who lit up Eobard’s days like he was the only star in a dark universe. 

Eobard swallowed heavily. Jumping back a couple of months was definitely feasible, compared to the rest of his ideas, at least. It’d probably help him learn how to run faster than the Flash, too. It’d be a good idea. Completely unmotivated in hedonistic self interest.

He put the book back in its proper place, and went to bed. He dreamt of dark hair and pale skin, and he finally felt warm.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys!!! just a note that there probably won't be a chapter for two weeks more than usual; I'm getting a foreign exchange student for a fortnight and will be busy as a bee :)
> 
> hope you all liked the chapter!!


	12. Yesterday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away  
> Now it looks as though they're here to stay  
> Oh, I believe in Yesterday
>>
>>> Time travel was a far more difficult thing to learn than he had expected.

Of course, it probably would have been easier if he had some sort of teacher, but—well. That was never going to happen. Still, Eobard made do. He made himself a treadmill like the one they had at the Flash museum, the one they said Harrison Wells built. He ran tests; he theorized, he paged through chronology textbooks and sci-fi novels alike. He would figure something out, if it was the last thing he did. 

He highlighted pages in Iris West’s Flash biography; the Flash had said he had time traveled before. If Eo could figure out when he traveled, maybe he’d be able to approximate the amount of force necessary for such a trip. Of course, he didn’t know exactly how long those trips had been. _All I had traveled was a day, maybe a week into the past_ , the Flash had told him, back in that horrible press conference where Eo was blinded by hero worship. But how long had the Flash been in the past? Had he spent a few seconds there, before his velocity threw him back into the right time? No, the Flash wouldn’t have even noticed that he traveled if that had been the case. Had the Flash spent a few hours there, building up his strength before eventually returning to the time where he was from? Or—had the Flash appeared there, somehow in the past, and was forced to avoid his past self until eventually the future arrived.

That, of course, was the least appealing option. As compelling as the thought appeared, being trapped in the past wasn’t anywhere near practical. Where would he live? Not only that, if Eobard got himself trapped in the past, determined on fixing what he and Barry had together, wouldn’t that be making a paradox—

He closed his document, slumping onto his couch with a huff. Barry Allen was not a priority, he told himself. The Flash was a priority. Beating the Flash was a priority. Barry Allen wasn’t, and making him one would just make Eo clingy and ridiculous. He needed to let it be a clean break, and not taunt himself with the image of Barry, beautiful and in love with him, draped across his lap as the summer breeze played with his hair—

No. There would be no attempts to go back to that summer. Or—Eobard swallowed, and tried not to think about a warm sun and soft skin—at least not until he figured out how to return back to his time. 

He stared pensively out of the windows, watching the rain. Rain in February—if he hadn’t been so preoccupied with everything else, Eobard would’ve been a lot more shocked. Central wasn’t known for mild winters, and the past months were clear representations of that. 

For the weather to change so warm, so suddenly—surely that had to mean something good?He ran a hand through his hair, staring at Central’s skyline. He had loved rain, when he was younger. He had loved how it washed everything else away.

“Professor Thawne?” Gideon said, startling him out of his reverie. “I apologize for the interruption, but you told me to inform you if the Flash fell into one of your speed traps.” 

“It’s fine, Gideon,” he said, changing into his suit in a flash. “Which trap did he fall into exactly?”

“Broadway and Fourth.”

“Broadway and Fourth,” he repeated. That wasn’t too far away from Barry’s apartment—no. Eobard had promised himself that he wouldn’t think about Barry.

Eobard breathed. Time to beat the Flash. He disappeared in a blur of yellow light. 

* * *

 

“What are you doing, Reverse.” The Flash stared at him from inside the speed trap, an unfathomable expression in his eyes. “Why are you acting like this?”

“What do you mean, why am I doing this.” The sentence flew out of him, pained and disbelieving and desperate, before he even knew what was happening. “I’m being your villain. Like you made me.”

“I never made you do anything.”

Something grew hard in Eobard’s heart. It had been one thing to know that the Flash had done this to him, that the Flash had broken his heart and burned it, but to know that the Flash couldn’t even tell that he had torn Eobard into shreds—

Eobard’s nails were biting into his palms, he noted his vaguely. His jaw was impossibly tight. “You destroyed me,” he said, finally, barely more than a gasp. “And then you took the pieces and forced them back together, like some cruel parody of Frankenstein.”

“I never did anything to you.”

“And your inability to see what you did just shows exactly what kind of monster you are.” He slammed his fist into the Flash’s chest before he deactivated the speed trap. It was a little counterintuitive, forcing the Flash into a speed trap just to let him out of it, but being a supervillain was rather difficult when the only plan Eobard had was _beat the Flash._

“You’re the villain here,” the Flash said, dodging blows. “Not me.”

_“I’m_ the villain?” Eobard gasped out, though it was almost more like a laugh, hysterical and wild. “I’m the _villain_?” His mind went wild, his vision went red. _I only became a villain because you made me one,_ he wanted to say, wanted to repeat, but the Flash wouldn’t care if he did. The Flash thought that he had done nothing wrong. The Flash thought that it was all Eo’s fault that they were in this position, brawling in super speed along Central’s streets.

His hand darted out, more like a reflex than a conscious movement, grabbing at the Flash with single-minded thought, grabbing him and running, running, running as the Flash fought against him. 

They didn’t talk. The fight was made up of only harsh breathing, voiceless cries in hyper speed. They ran, they fought: the Reverse’s hand squeezing the Flash’s throat, and the Flash gasping for air as he punched the Reverse’s side. It was a fight almost like a dance. They didn’t always land hits, the other being just a moment too quick, but when they did, the strength behind them was enormous.

So, when the Flash managed to speed punch him right beneath the diaphragm, all the air flew from his body. He collapsed to his knees, the Flash looming over him. “Give it up, Thawne,” the Flash said, and Eobard was lucky that he spoke too quickly for even today’s cameras too catch. “What are you getting out of this, anyway?”

Vengeance, he wanted to say. Retribution. Justice. But the words couldn’t escape his mouth. The Flash stared down at him, and Eobard couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. 

“What’s the point? You have no plan.”

Other super villains, actual super villains, had plans. What were Eobard’s plans? They were thin, nebulous things, that equated to little other than _beat the Flash._

“Give it up.” The Flash said, and sped away.

Eobard was just left there, bruised and aching on the ground, catching his breath. He needed to move soon, he noted vaguely. The police would be on their way soon, and they didn’t take too kindly to super villains. He’d move. Just as soon as he caught his breath. 

When the wailing of sirens grew nearer, his chest still hurt. But that probably had nothing to do with the hit. He dragged himself into a standing position, and ran. 

* * *

There was a boy sitting in Alfred's desk.

He had an air of bored elegance to him. He leaned against Alfred's desk, spinning the chair around almost absentmindedly. He pawed half heartedly at the Newton’s cradle sitting on top of the desk; The marbles knocked together. _Click clack._ Eobard ignored it. The boy moved another marble. _Clack._ Eobard could ignore it. He knew he could. It didn’t matter if he had been staring at the same sentence for the past ten minutes. 

The boy pulled back a marble again.

Eobard put his pen down and huffed. "Why are you even here?"

"Alfred says I can't work on my homework if I'm watching him teach."

"You're not working on your homework now."

"It's a report on the unusual warm spell Central’s been having," he said, as if that explained everything. "No, I'm not working on my homework."

"...Why?"

"Because I could do it in five minutes," the boy said. "If I was the flash I could do it even faster. You'd know about that, wouldn't you? Aren't you the one who loves the Flash?"

Eobard's hands turned into fists. His jaw, all of the sudden, felt tighter than usual. "No."

"Really? Alfred tells me that you do." The boy waited, as if for an answer, but then continued when it became obvious that Eobard wasn't going to say something. "I know a lot about the Flash. About all the superheroes, really,” he said.

Eobard ignored him. This document was important, Eobard reminded himself, he had to read it. It had been too long since he last graded papers. If he didn’t get some done now, he’d never finish. 

“Do you think that they’d let me become a superhero?” 

Eobard almost dropped his tablet. “No,” he said, staring down at his hands. “No, I don’t think they would.”

“Why not?” He asked. “Admittedly I don’t have any superpowers, but neither did the Green Arrow.”

The Green Arrow _so_ didn’t count as a superhero. “They just wouldn’t, alright,” he said, and set his tablet down with altogether too much force. “They wouldn’t.”

“You haven’t given me an explanation.”

_They wouldn’t because they’re cruel and enjoy breaking dreams,_ he wanted to say, pettily, but he didn’t.“No,” he said. “I didn’t. But they wouldn’t have to give you one either.” They wouldn’t. They’d assume you were a villain first glance, or they'd do everything in their power to stop you from becoming like them. There’d be no explanations, just heartbreak—

The boy huffed, and turned back to the Newton’s cradle. 

Eobard looked back to his paper, then sighed. “That was harsh. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” the boy said tersely.

There was silence again. Eobard fidgeted. “What’s your hypothesis?”

“For what?”

“Your project. The warm spell? What’s your hypothesis.”

“That it’s going to end, of course. This is Central,” the boy said, and this time it really was self-explanatory.It _was_ Central.

* * *

 

“I have to be better, Gideon.” He said, as if an AI would somehow be able to provide him with a sense of purpose. “Stronger. Faster. Quantifiably better.”

“Professor Thawne, those parameters are too vague for me to start any sort of improvement plan—”

“Not only that, Gideon, but I need to show the world that I am. No more just getting the Flash caught in speed traps and fighting with him, I need something grander. More dramatic,” he said. “I can’t just say that I’m better, I have to proclaim it. Make it impossible to ignore.”

“And how do you expect to do that, Professor?”

“I’m…” He sighed. “I’m not sure yet.” He ran his fingers through his hair, and collapsed onto the pillows of his couch. “I will, though. I’ve just been thinking too small.” He sighed, and watched the rain. One raindrop raced into a second one, which in turn ran all the way down to the bottom of the windowpane. Everything came together in the end. “Gideon, compile me a list of all the major super villains in the early twenty-first century,” he said. “Their motives and all of their heists.” Then he amended, “Everyone…except the Reverse Flash.” There was no use in created some sort of paradox. 

“Yes, Professor Thawne.” 

* * *

 

He probably should have known his plan was going to be a bust. How many times had he gone through the Flash museum, how many times had he read Iris West’s biography of the Flash? At one point he had even considered writing his own book on the Flash. There wasn’t a single villain in that list that Eobard didn’t know, and he could recite all of their escapades by heart.No. Eobard needed something original. Without speed traps, or trickery. He’d beat the Flash by sheer force of will alone, if nothing else. He wouldn’t run after the Flash, either. The Flash could chase after him, from now on. 

He threw on his costume in a blur. So what if he didn’t have plans for world domination, so what if he found no pleasure in willfully damaging the people or property of Central City. He was the _Reverse Flash._ He was better than all of the other villains, better than Captain Cold, better than Heatwave, better than the Joker. No matter what, he’d always be remembered by the citizens of Central, even the ones who couldn’t care less about superheroes. His name would forever be tied to the Flash, and the Flash’s name would live forever. 

No matter what, he’d be the only super villain that counted, to the people of Central. Not even the Flash could take that away from him. 

He started running. 

He didn’t pay much attention where to, or even necessarily how fast; he ran. He ran with nothing but sheer force behind him, passing schools and offices, shops and tourist traps. He ran, and he ran, and he ran, and the world moved so slowly, but all Eobard could think about was the Flash. So he ran. Up building walls, through West Park, past the Flash Museum. Nothing else mattered, but running. Nothing else mattered, but the Flash, and beating to him, and proving that at the very least, Eobard would not fail at being a super villain—

No. He cleared his mind, and forced his legs to go faster. He was better than the Flash thought he was. So much better. The Flash might say he was the best, but he wasn’t, he wasn’t; Eobard could beat him, he knew he could.

His breath came in sharp bursts, but it didn’t hurt from running.There was a trail of lightning in his wake. He looked to the side, and for a second, just a second, it looked like there was a reflection of himself running—then his eyes were jolted away.

The Flash was here. “Reverse,” he said, staring down at Eobard with those same cold, cold eyes. 

“Flash,” Eobard said, emotionlessly. He wouldn’t be cowed. He wouldn’t back down. Not this time. His body still tingled with the memory of electricity, and Eobard stared down the Flash without fear. 

For a moment, neither moved.The Flash opened his mouth, as if to spout off another insipid comment about how Eobard should stop, how the Flash never wronged him, and it was all just made up. Then he shut it, rather abruptly. He didn’t meet Eobard’s eyes. He sighed.

Then he was running again, and they were fighting, and though it hurt so much, it almost felt right. Justice and retribution sung in his veins every time his fist connected with the Flash. The Flash hit back, but the pain almost felt like it was healing; it hurt like the way alcohol on a wound hurt, or how running a marathon did: painfully, but with the knowledge that he’d get healthier from it. 

It was strangely like a dance, in a way. Hit, evade, hit again. The Flash darted forward just as Eobard was about to strike, and Eobard attempted to avoid him, but the Flash came away with bloody knuckles and Eobard was left wheezing. Eobard grabbed at him and the Flash grabbed back, a strange mixture of boxing and wrestling and rage. Electricity had to be sparking off of them, but Eobard didn’t pay attention to that. All that mattered was the Flash. The Flash and his sanctimonious face, the Flash and how he always believed that Eobard could never amount to anything—that was all that mattered. 

He slammed his hand into the Flash’s perfect mouth, and watched as he turned and spat red out onto the sidewalk. The Flash returned the favor, of course, and though Eobard tried to jolt his head away at the last moment he still hit Eobard’s cheekbone. He winced, but carried on. It didn’t matter. 

They fought. Eobard grabbed the Flash’s arm and used their combined velocity to throw them to the ground, but the Flash latched onto him. Eobard grappled with him as they tumbled to the ground. They flipped over, once, twice, three times. Eobard landed on top of him, straddling him in some sick facsimile of lovemaking, and the thought repelled him so much he almost jumped away. Then he realized he had the Flash exactly where he wanted him to be. He pulled out power-draining handcuffs, and clapped them around the Flash’s wrists. 

“I’m better than you, Flash,” he said. “Maybe you ought to remember that.”

He ran away, giddy with victory and adrenaline, and it felt like nothing could stop him. He didn’t even feel tired, and his legs didn’t protest as he made himself move faster and faster and faster. He’d beaten the Flash. He’d shown the world that he could do it, too, assuming that the media still covered the Flash’s appearances with nearly sacred devotion. Eobard didn’t need speed traps or melodramatic plans for world domination, either. He’d beaten the Flash almost easily, with neither aid nor difficulty, and the world had seen. The Flash wasn’t infallible. The Flash wasn’t the perfect hero that everyone remembered him as being the Flash wasn’t—

Eobard tripped and fell onto his knees. He pulled himself back up, ready to run again, only to look to the side and see—himself. 

He saw himself, running through the streets of Central.

Slowly, Eobard turned towards the clocktower. _1:17._  Almost two hours before he fought the Flash.

Eobard began to smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> annnnnnd I'm back! Believe it or not, the prodigal fic-writer returns.


	13. Moondance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > Can I just have one more moondance with you, my love  
> Can I just make some more romance with you, my love
>>
>>>  

“Gideon, please begin recording,” he said, stretching on the floor of his laboratory, even though it was mostly for show. “After the failures of trials seventeen, eighteen, and nineteen, I have to conclude that strong emotions are necessary to achieve travel. This is also corroborated with the Flash, because he was facing near-certain death during his disappearance.” He paused. “Despite all evidence to the fact that the Flash is heartless and lacks all emotion, we have to presume that he felt some sort of intense emotion during this time.” He frowned.

“Professor Thawne, I believe some personal bias may be sneaking in to your log entries.” 

He huffed. “Noted, Gideon,” he said, rolling his eyes. “My hypothesis is that these emotions, generally made up of either anger or fear, may be stimulating adrenaline levels to heights often not seen in human beings. This makes a speedster go so fast, they break the barrier between reality and what is known as the Speed Force,” he said. “For further information on the speed force, please see Iris West’s biography on the Flash, and the collected works of F. R. Ramon.”

He paused, allowing Gideon to search out the titles and attach them to his notes.

“All of this has lead me to my hypothesis: to properly harness the power of time travel, all we have to do,” He stuck a syringe into a vial, and let it fill with fluid. “Is supply the proper amounts of adrenaline and determination.”

“Professor Thawne, I would highly recommend not attempting this particular experiment—”

“I’ll be fine, Gideon,” he said, already swabbing his arm with alcohol and tucking the vial into his suit. “You’re perfectly capable of calling for emergency medical attention if this goes wrong. I'll be measuring my vitals the entire time.” He had bought a new watch just for this purpose a while ago. All of his other watches, most of which held some sort of Flash imagery and had thus been hidden away, didn't have the ability to monitor his vitals as well as tell time.

“Professor Thawne—”

“I’ll be fine,” he repeated, and plunged the syringe into his skin. 

For a moment, all was quiet. He couldn’t even hear his heartbeat. Then, suddenly, everything roared to life—his heart beat fast, fast, fast, _ba-bum, ba-bum, babumbabumbabum—_ he became vaguely aware of sparks flittering around him, and his breath came quick, so quick—

There was an empty, fearful feeling clawing at his chest. He could hear Gideon in the background, over the rushing of his heartbeat, over the buzzing in his ears. She was probably upset that he hadn’t thought this through properly, she was always upset when he didn’t think things through properly, just like the real Gideon, space Gideon, always did—

No. She wasn’t important, This wasn’t important. He had to—he had to—God, his head hurt—He had to think. Yeah. That’s what that was. And—Run. He shot off, and he couldn’t even really pay attention to how fast it was. Still, had to keep going, and keep going, and god it felt like his heart might just beat out of his chest. He wasn’t exactly sure if he was dying or not. 

No. No thinking about dying. Just time travel. Yeah. Time travel. Didn’t he have a time that he was supposed to think of? For science. He had forgotten it. He probably should have thought that through better. Still, there had to be other dates he could think of, weren’t there? Other dates…

Before he knew it, there was a portal in front of him, dark and gaping as he jumped through it. 

After that, everything was black.

* * *

 

When he woke up, the first thing he noticed was that he was warm. 

His eyes flickered open; he saw clear skies and green grass, and the warm air pushed his hair to the side. His cowl must have been pulled off him at some point, but everything else appeared to be fine. Except—he moved, and winced. His entire body felt weak, and not even his advanced healing saved him from sore muscles. 

He groaned, and pushed himself to his feet. There’d be no more super speed for at least a day, he decided, limping. At _least._

It took him a moment before he realized he didn’t know where he was going, and that he could be anywhere. He had no idea where he was. Still, he couldn’t just stay here, wherever here was. Or perhaps more appropriately, _when_ ever here was. This wasn’t March in Central, warm spell or no warm spell. The air had the sweet warmth of a morning at the end of summer, where the last vestiges of scorching heat clung with an alarming tenacity.

Something small and hopeful and pathetic blossomed in his chest, because there was no way he traveled more than a few months into the past, which meant that if it was summer then it had to be last summer. Last summer, with those lovely, golden days, and most of all: something that was far too lasting to be called a crush, something that was too real to be infatuation—and something that ended up being far too unrequited to be called anything close to love.

It didn’t matter, he told himself. What mattered was figuring out where he was, and how he was going to get home. He could try the adrenaline again, but definitely not before his body had a chance to recuperate. Which, for the most part, meant he was stuck here.

He sighed, and ran a hand down his face. Wherever here was. 

It looked like some sort of park, dotted with trees and lush carpets of flowers.A woman in jogging gear passed him by, and sent him a strange look, but otherwise did nothing. At least that meant he hadn't accidentally run to Opal City, or Century City, or anywhere where it was still warm in March. Even there, they knew of the Reverse Flash’s return, and what he looked like.

No, this had to be the past. But where?

“Thawne?” Someone guffawed from behind him. “What in god’s name are you wearing?”

Alfred Pennyworth stood there, scandalized and holding the hand of a concerned looking Bruce Wayne. So it was Central, then. “Alfred. I don't suppose you could tell me where I am,” he said, “…and also what today's date is?”

Alfred sighed, and stared at the sky, looking to all the world like he'd rather be anywhere but here. “You’re in the middle of West Park, Thawne. And it’s Monday. The 28th,” he said. “Of August,” he added, long sufferingly, at the blank look on Eobard’s face.

“…2430?”

“Jesus. Yes, 2430. Honestly, what were you doing last night, Thawne?”He groaned.

Eobard coughed, slightly panicking. “Well—”

“Don't answer that,” he said, as if suddenly remembering that the boy was listening. "I don’t want to know.”

Eobard had never been more thankful for Alfred’s son in his life. “It’s not bad, Alfred,”

“No, I don't know you, I never saw you, goodbye,” he said, leading Bruce away. “Now, I believe someone had been making a case for ice-cream?”

Then he was gone. 

West Park. If Eobard squinted hard enough, he could almost see the meticulously polished bronze statue of the park’s namesake. The flowers, on closer inspection, weren't different species, but only the one. Irises. If he hadn't been so disoriented, Eobard was certain he'd have known it earlier. West Park was one of the most popular places in Central, and all the tourists came to visit it because they thought it was romantic.

It really was romantic, in certain times of the year. Eobard always liked to believe that he’d propose in West Park, back when he used to daydream about that kind of thing. He liked to think he’d do it in late spring, maybe May, when the very first of the flowers began to bloom but before the Park started drawing more visitors. It'd be morning, maybe just barely afternoon, and the sunlight would peak through the canopy of leaves and make a halo around Barry’s hair—  
Eobard sighed, and shook himself out of the fantasy. What was actually important about West Park, he told himself, was that he knew how to get home from there. Everything else was just superfluous. 

* * *

 

He changed quickly, cautious of how his past self could return home at any minute, and tried to formulate a plan. Under no circumstances could he be allowed to interact with his past self, so he had to make sure they were never in the same place at once. 

In the summer, his last lecture ended at noon on Mondays. Until then, he could stay at his apartment, and after that, he could hang around the university until he felt healthy enough to attempt running back to the future. He wouldn’t talk to anyone if he could help it, and—

Above all else, he would not go looking for Barry. The possible consequences that could have on the timeline were disastrous. Any one wrong move, and over half of his and Barry's relationship could just disappear, forgotten by time. No. He couldn’trisk it. 

He set an alarm to go off when his vitals were sufficient enough to attempt a return. He wouldn't stay for any longer than that.

* * *

 

The sun shined down on the quad as he made his way to his office. He tried to force himself to relax, tried to tell himself that nobody would be able to tell he wasn't from this time, that nothing would change if anyone saw him.

“Eo!” A familiar voice shouted. Eobard froze. He couldn't breathe.

He should have expected this. He knew that, theoretically. Yet for some reason, he hadn’t. He had only prepared himself to stop from actively seeking Barry out; he hadn’t thought of how he would react if Barry found _him_. He was too used to a Barry that pretended he didn't exist, not one that smiled when Eobard walked into the room. 

“Eo,” Barry said, and god, oh god, Eobard didn't even know what to do. He was frozen— a part of him wanted to cry, a part of him wanted to smile and pretend that everything was fine, a part of him wanted to spin him up and kiss him. All thoughts of the timeline fled from his head immediately. “Hi.” 

Eobard swallowed, almost unconsciously, and for a second, or a minute, or an hour, he just stared at him. He took in the way the summer light hit Barry's hair, the white marble of his skin, the way his eyes squinted when he smiled. What he wouldn’t do to stay frozen in time, for Barry to keep smiling at him like that, Eobard didn't know. 

“Eo?” Barry said again, and the smile began to falter. “Are you alright?”

He wasn’t sure, exactly, how to speak, or what to say. Still, he had to say something, anything. “I—yeah.” He fumbled. “I’ve never been better, actually.”

“Great,” Barry said, and the grin was back on his face again, and Eobard had never wanted to say the words _I love you_ more in his entire life. He'd never told Barry that, he realized, and suddenly he became acutely aware of that fact.

“Barry,” he said instead, because he wasn’t sure what to say. There were so many emotions that threatened to consume him, and he had to say something, or else he'd explode. “Barry, I—” _love you, love you, god, you're beautiful and I love you,_ he wanted to say, but it was too early to say that, and he'd just scare Barry off if he did. 

“Yeah?”

Eobard kissed him, then, because Barry was there, and his lips were soft, and Eobard had been so lonely for so long that he had forgotten what it was like to actually have someone who wanted him. He kissed him. He clung to Barry like he was the only water in the desert, or the only spark of light in a black void, and he kissed him. He kissed him, and kissed him, until the sharp knife of loneliness lessened into a dull ache. 

They broke apart; Barry stumbled away, hair askew and face pink. Beautiful. “You should be kissed, and often _,”_ he said, more to himself than to Barry, remembering some half-forgotten quote from a movie so old it was practically ancient.

“Gone with the Wind,” Barry said, absentmindedly, one hand raised to his lips “So, What was that for?”He said when he broke out of his daze, joking and breathless. 

Eobard smiled, hopelessly. "I just missed you, is all.” 

Barry laughed, and ran a hand through his hair. “You just saw me yesterday.”

Right. Eobard coughed. "Still missed you,” he mumbled. “Anyway, I was wondering if, um—” he searched, desperately for something, anything to say. “Are you free for the rest of the day?”

Barry blinked. “Uh, I guess I am,” he said. “Why?”

“I was wondering if maybe you'd want to go to West Park with me,” Eobard said. “You're still new to the city, aren't you? Have you ever been before?” He needed to rest before attempting time travel again, he told himself. What would it hurt if he spent those hours with Barry, instead of alone? The timeline, but only maybe.

“Uh—no, no I haven’t.”

“You'll love it,” Eobard said, and some heavy emotion curled in his chest. “It’s always best when the irises are in bloom.” He slipped his hand into Barry’s, and let himself forget about timelines. 

It was such a beautiful day.

* * *

 

It was easy just to let himself forget. It was easy to pull Barry by the hand through West Park, easy to tuck flowers behind his ears. The sun shined down on them, not a cloud in the sky, and it was so heady it almost felt like a dream. 

Barry lied down beside him on the grass, curled into Eobard’s side. The sun caught on Barry’s long eyelashes as he dozed, and suddenly, dizzyingly, _want_ coursed through him so hard that it hurt. If he could stop time, he’d stay like this forever. He’d stay like this forever and he would forget all about a time where Barry just disappeared, where Barry didn’t want him at all. He’d freeze time, and he’d live forever in this moment, captured in a picture of a perfect day. 

“Eo,” Barry murmured, pressing a kiss against his jaw. “What’s wrong? You’re so tense.”

“It’s nothing,” Eobard said, and then turned so that they were face-to-face. Their noses touched. He could feel Barry’s breath against his lips. In a way, it was almost more intimate than a kiss. 

“Stop thinking so much, then,” Barry joked. “I’m trying to sleep.” His eyes were sea green, and flaked with gold.   Eobard felt, suddenly, recklessly, that he didn’t care about the timeline, that he didn’t care about anything. He’d break the timeline in half if it meant he didn’t have to lose this—but that was a dangerous thought. 

He had to go back to the future. No matter what he wanted, no matter how much it hurt, he couldn’t stay here. This was why he should’ve avoided seeing him again, he knew. If he hadn’t seen Barry again, he could’ve pretended that he didn’t care. He could’ve pretended that he was over him; he could’ve pretended that he was fine. 

He wasn’t fine. It couldn’t be more obvious than it was now, when things were golden and perfect. Desperation gnawed at him. The future was cold and bleak; he’d give anything to change it for the better, but he didn’t know how. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Barry frowned, and suddenly, again,all Eobard could think of was how he’d never told Barry _I love you._ Not even once. Yet here he was, standing in the past, able to correct his wrongs, and stop his regrets, but—he was afraid.

“Barry, I,” he faltered. If he messed this up, months of his and Barry’s relationship could disappear. The future could get impossibly bleaker, without even the memory of Barry in the fall. He couldn’t. He couldn’t. He had played with the timeline too much already, just from speaking to Barry. He couldn’t risk anything more. Yet—“You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time, Barry Allen,”—he couldn’t let himself go back to the future without letting Barry know at least that.

“Eo—” Barry straightened. Eobard winced.

“It’s fine,” Eobard said. “I’m not expecting an answer, or anything. I just wanted you to know.”

“No, no, it’s—” Barry paused, and it was torture, because Eobard had fucked it all up, hadn’t he— “You’re the best thing that’s happened to me, too.” 

Oh. It didn’t feel like he was saying it just to say it, either; it felt like he meant it. Eobard’s heart skipped a beat, and a smile began to bloom across his face. Barry reached down and tangled their fingers together; Eobard let his eyes drift shut. For a moment, a beautiful moment, everything was perfect.

It couldn’t last. Eobard knew that. 

He closed his eyes and dreamt of a world with no sense of time at all.

* * *

 

He awoke to Barry prodding at him. “Eo, come on. We should go home,” he said. 

“Right,” Eobard murmured, in a fog, trying to think about where he would stay tonight. He'd figured his office, but maybe—

“Your watch has been beeping for a while, I figured that’s some sort of alarm.”

What? Eobard didn’t have an alarm on his watch, except—

His heart seized.The monitor. The monitor on his vitals that would tell him when he was healthy enough to travel back. _No,_ he wanted to say, wanted to panic, wanted to check and see if there was a problem with the monitoring systems. Surely it hadn’t been enough time yet. Surely he could insist on taking Barry to dinner, or out somewhere else, surely he could stay in this golden daydream for just a while longer—

No, he told himself. If he didn’t go now, he would just keep pushing it off further and further. He had to go, or he never would. 

“Right,” Eobard said, and hoped it didn’t sound as strained as it felt. “I should go.” A thousand words raced through his head, everything from _please, don’t leave,_ and, _whatever it is that I will do in the future, forgive me for it,_ to, _I’m not sure if there’s anything worthwhile in me, when you’re gone,_ and _I love you, I love you, I love you—_

_“_ Yeah.” 

Everything was quiet for a moment. Barry glanced into his eyes. The soft blue of the twilight sky surrounded him, making his skin look paler and almost ethereal. He looked a little like a fairytale character, like this: surrounded by flowers, illuminated only by the soft light of the barely-risen moon and the faint glow of lampposts. 

He wished, not for the first time, that he had the ability to stop time, instead of just the ability to run through it. That thought, however, did more harm than good. His time was up. He had to accept that. 

Yet—he took Barry’s hand, and entwined their fingers together. He couldn’t find any words to say. His other hand reached up to cradle Barry’s cheek, and slowly, surely,Eobard kissed him. He kissed him, and it wasn’t the hard, disbelieving, passionate kiss from that morning. Eobard kissed him, and it was soft, and gentle, like he was a knight in a fairytale, kissing his love for the very last time before he rode off to certain death. 

They parted reluctantly, but they parted.“I’ll miss you, Barry Allen,” he said, though that didn’t accurately portray how he felt. Perhaps it was romanticized, and perhaps he was pathetic, but the longing, the ache he felt went far beyond just missing him. 

Barry had decided he didn't want him. That was Barry’s decision to make, but that didn’t mean that it didn’t hurt. 

“You’re…” He swallowed, trying to come up with a word that was neither too much or too little. _Perfect_ was too dramatic. _Amazing_ was too trivial. “Everything. I hope you know that.”

“I’ll be seeing you tomorrow, Eo,” Barry said, squeezing his hand.

“I know,” Eobard lied, and hoped his smile didn’t look like a grimace. “I just—I just wanted you to know that.”He kissed him again, slow and chaste. “Goodnight, Barry Allen.”

“Goodnight,” Barry murmured. 

* * *

 

He injected the adrenaline, and didn't think of Barry at all. Thoughts of Barry were best left in an unblemished past. 

The future sped towards him. 


	14. Alone Again, Naturally (Part One)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > To think that only yesterday  
> I was cheerful, bright and gay  
> Looking forward to who wouldn't do  
> The role I was about to play  
> But as if to knock me down  
> Reality came around  
> And without so much as a mere touch  
> Cut me into little pieces
>>
>>>  

He woke to the sound of Gideon. “—fessor Thawne? Professor Thawne, I’m going to contact medical professionals—”

He pushed himself into a sitting position, and ignored the lightheadedness that followed. “No need, Gideon. I’m fine.”

“Professor Thawne, I do have to insist,” she said, and Eobard was really regretting programming her with Gideon’s disapproving voice. “You are experiencing acute distress, and nearly avoided cardiac arrest.”

“I’ll be alright,” he said. “Just give me some time.” He ran a hand through his hair, and listened to his heart rate attempt to turn back to normal. 

“I’m going to have to strongly advise you to never attempt this method again, Professor,” she said, and he could almost hear the frown on her nonexistent face. “The effects on your system are far too strenuous.”

He ran his hand down his face, and paused when he reached his lips. Barry had kissed those lips, only moments ago. Barry had been his, only moments ago. He had told him almost everything he had wanted to, but hadn’t. Something small and hopeful bloomed in his chest—maybe, just maybe—“Gideon, has there been any fluctuations in the timeline since this test?”

Gideon was silent for a moment, long enough to seem like she was hesitant. “There has been one minor time fluctuation, yes.”

His heart rose. “Well? What is it.” He knew, theoretically, that he shouldn’t get his hopes up, but _Barry Barry Barry_ rang in his head like a prayer. “Gideon—when was my last interaction with Barry Allen?”

“December 30th, 2430.” December thirtieth? That was practically an entire month afterhe had last been with him, and yet—

It still hadn’t changed anything. Barry still didn’t want him anymore. He didn’t even have the memories; because he traveled in time, his memories still kept the ones from the first timeline, before the anomaly. Which meant that even though a version of him had a few more weeks with Barry, he’d never know what it had been like.

He felt hollow. He felt like he had been broken into pieces, stitched together like a patchwork doll, and then torn apart again. He felt—he didn’t even know what he felt. A dozen emotions swamped him. 

He swallowed, and shut his eyes. He told himself not to think about what might have been. Barry was not his anymore. He knew that, and he had known that for months. Nothing was changed. It didn’t matter what might have been, because it never would be. He breathed. “Alright. Were there any other sort of temporal anomalies, Gideon?”

“No, Professor Thawne.”

He swallowed. It didn’t matter, he told himself. It didn’t matter. “Alright.”

He breathed, and it was cold on his lungs. He could still feel the ghost of Barry’s kisses on his skin, summer-sweet and warm, but as far as everyone else knew—as far as _Barry_ knew—that had been months ago. It didn't matter one bit. It was almost as if it had never happened at all.

He sighed, and asked Gideon to turn the temperature up by ten degrees. There was no use dwelling on the past.

* * *

He moved through his days a little like an automaton, gray day after gray day sliding on by in the dull monotony of his life. He lectured, he bickered with Alfred, he went home, he slept. 

It rained. It rained, and it rained,and it rained, and the air was cold and biting underneath the overcast skies. It was a Tuesday, he noted vaguely as he walked across the quad, and stopped in his tracks. He had another lecture still. He scrunched up his nose and changed direction, drawing his coat tighter around his shoulders. 

“At least tomorrow there won’t be more rain,” someone said in the distance, trying to be optimistic and failing.

“No, then there will be snow,” another person grumbled. “Which is worse on all accounts.”

Eobard turned, and glanced the couple out of the corner of his eye: Cisco and Hartley, on the other side of the field, sharing an umbrella as they bickered beneath the trees. Something sharp cut through Eobard’s chest; once upon a time, he would’ve walked over, smiled, and talked to them. Yet ever since Barry…well, they were more Barry’s friends than his. Eobard turned, and kept walking. They hadn’t seen him, there was no reason to wait around until they did. 

“Cisco…” Hartley began, quiet, and after a long pause and a sigh. “Do you ever wonder if Barry’s doing the right thing?”

Eobard stopped in his tracks. He didn’t mean to. Yet, as if possessed by the mere mention of Barry’s name, he stopped and hid himself behind a tree. 

“What do you mean,” Cisco said.

“With Eobard,” Hartley said, as if that explained everything. “If Barry just told him—”

_Told him what?_ Whatever it was, Eobard would forgive it. He’d forgive anything. Eobard could almost imagine it— he’d tell him _whatever it is, I don’t care,_ and he’d kiss him. He’d kiss him, and it’d be just like that summer again. 

“You know he couldn’t tell him, Hart.” Cisco sighed. “It’s too late now, anyway.”

_No, no it wasn’t,_ Eobard wanted to protest.

“You don’t know that.”

“Yeah, I do.” Cisco snapped. “Barry can’t just waltz up there and tell him, Hartley. You know what would happen. Sometimes it’s just too late.”

“It hadn’t been too late for you and me.” Hartley’s voice went quiet.

Cisco softened. “No. It wasn’t,” he said, and glanced around as if to tell a secret, “but you and me hadn’t became mortal enemies bent on destroying one another.”

What? It wasn’t like that. Barry had just disappeared, Eobard didn’t hate him, Eobard couldn’t hate him if he tried.

“I had become a super villain, though,” Hartley pointed out and Eobard—Eobard short circuited.How did he know that Eobard was the Reverse? How could he know? Unless—Eobard swallowed. He felt sick, suddenly, and became acutely aware of how his fingernails were biting into his hand, hard enough to draw blood.

“Yeah, you had.” Cisco smiled, soft and nostalgic, and kissed Hartley’s cheek. “But you and I both know that Barry can’t just walk up to him and tell him _Eobard, I’m the Flash.”_

_No._ No, no, no, no. His heart pounded in his chest. He couldn’t think. He must not have heard right, he told himself, attempting to bite back hysterics. There was no way that was true. Barry Allen wasn’t the Flash. Barry was late to almost every meeting. Barry was—Barry was—Barry was everything. He wouldn’t just lie to Eobard like that. He wouldn’t humiliate him on national television, he wouldn’t break Eobard into pieces. He wouldn’t make Eobard hate the only thing that kept him going throughout his childhood and most of his adult life. 

Not only that, but Hartley and Cisco wouldn’t keep that from him. They were his friends. They’d been his friends for years. They wouldn’t just lie to him. They wouldn’t be complicit in how the Flash destroyed all his childhood dreams, they wouldn’t just—just—just sit back and laugh while Eobard had everything he loved torn into pieces. _Yes,_ a voice whispered in his head, dark and cruel. _They were your friends. They wouldn’t do that just like they wouldn’t forget about you once Barry came along._

His breath came quick. He fidgeted, lightning fast, and he couldn’t think, he couldn’t think at all. So, he ran. 

He ran, and he ran, and he ran. Barry wasn’t the Flash. Barry couldn’t be the Flash, he told himself, forcing him faster and faster and faster. There was no way that it had all been a lie. Barry—Barry had loved him. Maybe he didn’t any longer, but Barry had loved him. The Flash had never loved anything in his life. Barry had loved him. Eobard had been there, just a few weeks ago. He had tasted Barry’s kisses, and had almost told him that he loved him. It couldn’t have been a lie. It couldn’t have.

Central City passed by in a blur, and he noted, vaguely, that if he kept this up he’d probably have the Flash after him soon, but he couldn’t bother. He kept running. He had to. It just—it didn’t make sense. Barry was beautiful and kind and accepting. The Flash—the Flash had standards that were impossible to meet; the Flash was cruel and mocking and harsh. They couldn’t be the same person. They weren’t. 

By the time Eobard finally collapsed, too tired to continue, he was outside of West Park. The irony hit him, cold and cruel, and he dug his fingers into the dead grass as if that would ground him. Barry had kissed him here. Barry had kissed him, and they had been deliriously happy, and if all of that had been a lie, then— then— (was it even possible for Eobard to be loved at all?)

He closed his eyes; he breathed. No. There had to be a mistake, or a misunderstanding somewhere. He must have heard wrong. There was no way that Barry was the Flash, he told himself. 

He ignored the way it felt like a lie. 

 


	15. Mack The Knife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > Now on the sidewalk, huh, huh, whoo sunny morning, un huh  
> Lies a body just oozin' life, eek  
> And someone's sneakin' 'round the corner  
> Could that someone be Mack the Knife?
>> 
>> Could it be our boy's done something rash?
>>
>>>  

 

The idea was still there, and it clawed at the back of his mind. No matter how much Eobard tried to ignore it, no matter how much Eobard tried to tell himself _Barry would never hurt me,_ the idea was still there, haunting his every move.

Eobard saw Barry once, through the window in his office, and for a moment, a notion seized him; he wanted to run over there, confront him, and beg Barry to say _what are you talking about, that makes no sense._ He wanted to his forgiveness for whatever slight he had committed; he wanted for Barry to smile in his direction again. 

Then, the moment was over. Barry turned away, smiling at some invisible friend, and Eobard shut the blinds. 

Alfred sent a questioning glance his way. “Something wrong?” He said, raising an eyebrow.

“Nothing,” Eobard lied, and stared down at the papers he was supposed to grade. “I just didn’t want to look at the snow anymore.”

Alfred rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say, Thawne.” 

* * *

 

There was something about the night, in the time after one in the morning, when Eobard stared up at the ceiling because he couldn’t sleep. There was something about the night. The air felt heavier, laden with secrets that couldn’t be buried away. It was so much harder to lie to himself during the night. 

Barry Allen was not the Flash, he told himself, closing his eyes. Barry Allen as not the Flash. But if he was—no. Eobard wouldn’t think about that. He wouldn’t. That just lead to thinking about why Barry would want to break his heart, if had been fun for him to take everything Eobard had ever wanted and steal it away. If Barry had laughed when he found out that Eobard was trying to become a speedster, because he knew that Eobard would never be anything compared to him. He had once told Eobard that Eobard would make a better Flash than the Flash was—Eobard had once taken that as a declaration of love. Now it was just cruel irony. Barry had never believed that, Barry never would. Eobard had never meant anything to Barry, not for a second—no. 

He breathed, and counted to ten. The night sky was dark and strange, and his body was abuzz with energy. He sighed. He didn’t sleep that night. 

* * *

 

He had told himself that he wouldn’t appear as the Reverse Flash again. Not so soon after what he’d heard. Yet after three days of canceled lectures and lying around his apartment, he couldn’t stop himself, when Gideon told him: “There’s been a Flash sighting on fourth and seventh.”

It wasn’t Barry, he told himself, even as he threw on his suit, even as his hands shook. It wasn’t Barry. Barry would never, he told himself, as he ran. 

The Flash glanced at him, cold and cruel, and he told himselfthat Barry would never be like him. 

Yet he couldn’t stop thinking about it, not even as he grappled with the Flash. _Just take off his mask, and you’ll see,_ the idea whispered, and Eobard couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything, because—if it was Barry, if it was Barry underneath the mask, Barry would’ve never loved him at all. He couldn’tthink. He grabbedat the Flash’s mask and he _pulled,_ because if it wasn’t Barry then he could rest and he could know that it hadn’t all been a lie. 

The mask came off.

The world stopped. It was like he watched everything in slow motion; millisecondsturned into minutes as slowly, achingly, the mask revealed the face underneath. The Flash began vibrating almost immediately afterwards, but it was too late. Eobard had already seen.

Barry.

He felt nauseous. The world narrowed down to one thing and one thing only: Barry Allen was the Flash. Which meant—which meant—everything had been a lie. Everything. From Barry’s fake affection, to the way he smiled when he called him _Eo,_ everything. He’d never loved him. Never.

Just a few weeks ago, Barry had kissed him, and Eobard had carried the memory of those kisses for weeks on end after returning to the future. He had gone through his days with nothing to keep him moving except for the memory of those kisses, and how Barry loved him, but it had all been a lie. Barry was the Flash, which meant that Barry knew exactly what he was doingwhen he broke Eobard’s heart. Barry was the Flash, which meant he pretended to love him before he humiliated him and left him out to dry. Barry was the Flash, which meant that even though he knew Eobard never wanted to harm anyone, he turned the entire world against him. He turned Eobard into a villain. 

He must have never loved him. 

The world went red. All he could hear was the rush of blood in his ears, and he burned with so much anger and betrayal that he couldn’t think.

“Eobard,” Barry said, low and soft like a mockery of the affection Eobard once thought he felt. “Eobard, you have to understand—”

“Understand,” he repeated, voice shaking with rage. “Understand that you took my life and made it a joke, understand that you decided to pretend to love me just so you could break my heart?” 

“Eobard—”

“I don’t listen to you, anymore, _Flash_ ,” he spat out the name like it was poison. 

“Eobard!” He cried, but Eobard didn’t listen, didn’t care, and like a man possessed by fate, he swung, and they were fighting again, running again.

He moved with an energy that felt like it could never be burnt off, and underneath his skin his blood boiled more with every hit. Had Barry known? Had Barry always known that it would end up like this, that Eobard would become the Reverse Flash? Was breaking Eobard’s heart some sort of twisted recompense for that? 

He ran, and he ran, and he ran, and all Eobard wished was that Barry Allen had never come into his life at all. Their surroundings grew blurry with every step they took, moving faster and farther as they fought. They flew, faster and faster and faster and _god_ Eobard wanted to rip him out of existence—he wanted to destroy him before he ever had the chance to destroy Eobard. 

A thought dawned, slowly in his head: if he killed Barry before Barry ever had the chance to become the Flash, he’d create a paradox. The timeline would have to reset. And if the timeline reset—it’d be almost like Barry never existed in the first place.

Eobard could get peace.

He passed into the time vortex easily, with no resistance at all. The Flash followed him through, but that didn’t matter. Barry didn’t know what he planned to do. He’d be too late to stop him, anyway. 

He’d destroy the Flash, he told himself, he’d kill him and he wouldn’t even feel regret, not after everything that Barry had done. He’d kill him, he’d kill him, god, Eobard wanted him _gone._

Yet when they appeared in Barry Allen’s childhood home, the first thing the Flash did— before Eobard had barely done anything other than extract himself from fighting—was take his child-self and run. 

Fine, Eobard thought, as the Flash returned. If he couldn’t make a paradox, then fine. He could still hurt the Flash. He could still make him realize what he had done. 

When the Flash returned, he was alone. When Eobard went after him, it felt almost poetic, like fate. They fought, in a blur of red and gold and rage, and all Eobard could think about was the pain. 

Sparks flew. The world moved in a blur. “Do you know what you did to me?” He growled, or maybe he didn’t; everything moved too fast and there was too much“Do you know?”

Barry didn’t respond. He just dodged, just attacked, went after Eo just as much as Eobard chased after him.

“You were—you were _everything_ to me.” His fist connected with Barry’s face. “And then—you ruined it. You took everything I loved about my childhood and tore it to shreds.”

Barry hit him in the stomach. Eobard doubled over, but got up again. Still, nothing. Not a single word.

“Do you know what that felt like?” He caught Barry’s fist in his hand and twisted it. “Do you know how that _burned_?”He pulled Barry close to him, in a sick facsimile of a lover’s embrace. “To know that the one thing I loved most of all took my dreams and my love and broke it apart.” His hands found his way to Barry’s throat. “You broke _me_ apart _._ ” His hands tightened,he could feel the way Barry’s pulse jumped underneath his fingertips, his mortality so obvious. “I trusted you.”

Barry thrashed against him, kicking and pulling at Eobard’s hands, but Eobard wouldn’t let up.He couldn’t. Barry spluttered, trying to breathe, trying to struggle; the immovable, perfect Flash was suddenly so fragile underneath his hands.

“You have no idea what that feels like,” he said. “When everything you know becomes a lie.” He could kill him, like this. There was nothing stopping him. He could just shove his hand between The Flash’s ribs, and it’d be like he never existed. (Well. He would’ve existed. That wasn’t how the timeline worked, after all. But Eobard could pretend. Barry Allen would be dead, and everything he had ever done to Eobard would be semantics. All of the pain, all of the suffering; there would be no point.)

But—if the Flash was dead—

There was a time in his life where the Flash was the only thing he loved. The only thing he lived for. He couldn’t kill the Flash. 

He could make him hurt, though. He could break him apart like the Flash had broken him. There had been a woman caught in their midst, Barry’s mother, presumably. Maybe, just maybe—he could make Barry know just what it felt like to have everything you’ve ever loved be wrenched away in one heartbreaking moment. 

There was a knife, and suddenly, in a blur of red, red, red—

Nora Allen was dead.

* * *

 

What had he done? What had he _done_? He set out to run—only to stumble and fall. There was blood on his hands. His speed wasn’t reacting properly. For all he knew, he had stopped Barry becoming the Flash at all. 

Oh god. If Barry never became Flash, that meant he was stuck here. Stuck here in this backwards time, an aberration, probably just taunting the time wraiths into running this way—

He needed to get out of here. He needed a disguise. 

(When he closed his eyes, he saw Nora Allen, red hair blending into a pool of her own blood, and he started shaking.) 

What was one more soul on his conscience? All it took was one terror fueled rush, and then he had Harrison Wells’s face, voice, and skin. He didn’t look himself, anymore. Fine. Eobard had no problem with that. He didn’t feel much like himself, anymore, either.

He closed his eyes, and tried not to think of their faces as they died.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was the heaaaaat of the moment, the heaaaaaat of the moment  
> i know i know, two chapters in three days unbelievable amiright


	16. Alone Again, Naturally (Part Two)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a little while from now  
> If I'm not feeling any less sour  
> I promise myself to treat myself  
> And visit a nearby tower  
> And climbing to the top  
> Will throw myself off  
> In an effort to  
> Make it clear to whoever  
> Wants to know what it's like  
> When you're shattered

 

It had all been for nothing. All of it.

His speed had returned in sharp bursts: in nervous vibrations and his impossibly quick heartbeat. He nearly hadn’t noticed, at first. He had been so focused on what he had to do rather than what was actually happening; it was easier, that way. So when he found his hands shaking, he almost brushed it off.

Then, he stared. 

They weren’t even his hands, not really. They were Harrison Wells’s hands: long and spindly, meant for an artist. Eobard’s had been similar, but the skin was a shade paler than Eobard’s used to be, and there was a scar on his left hand, and callouses that had never been there before. 

They were a stranger’s hands, not his. No longer did he have the scar from that disastrous year that Gideon convinced him to join the tennis team; no longer was there a freckle on the inside of his palm. He had become someone else entirely, and he wasn’t sure he liked the result. 

Body-stealing was a barbaric practice from a barbaric time, in the mid twenty-second century, during the last great world war. They were used by spies, mostly. Or people trying to flee the enemy. Or people who were so persecuted they had no choice to start anew. They were grave robbers, not murderers, but they all had the same goal; disguise. 

There were ways to verify a person’s identity, Eobard knew. Brain scans, handwriting analysis, lie detector tests. The laws were kind, after the third world war, and though they were antiquated, they were still in use. As far as society knew, he had done no wrong. 

He could go back. With his speed, there was nothing stopping him. He could go home, go back to his apartment, curl up in blankets—and—and—and what? Teach classes? There was nothing there for him. Gideon was off in space, Tina was Tina, and _god_ knew he could never face Cisco or Hartley after what he did—

How could he ever face anyone, after what he did? He still saw Nora Allen every time he closed his eyes; he still saw Barry’s face frozen in cold horror. Eobard hadn’t slept in days. When he did, it was fitful and nightmarish, plagued with cold eyes and corpses. No, not even Eobard would forgive Eobard after what he had done.

There was no reason to go back home. Yet there was nothing else that held him here, either. Oh, he could start anew. He could start up Star Labs, and make the Flash, and pretend he wasn’t a cold-hearted murderer, but it would all be a lie. It would be a lie, just like how his skin was a lie, how his face was a lie, and every time someone looked at him they would say a different name. 

At least in the future he could be himself; at least in the future he wouldn’t have to deal with the pain of hiding. Barry might know what Eobard did, but there was nothing he could do. The courts wouldn’t believe that Eobard had committed a murder almost four hundred years in the past, not without Barry revealing who they both were to the general populace. No, given what lengths Barry had gone to make sure that Eobard never knew about Barry’s alter-ego, he didn’t have to worry about that being an option. 

So, Eobard would go home. Maybe he’d try to engineer a way to reverse his body back to how it used to be, he told himself, trying and failing to raise his spirits. It was a fool’s errand; the process was never meant to be reversible. For better or for worse, he was stuck like this. He had to deal with the consequences of his actions.

At least one thing good had come from this: he’d found a more efficient way to time travel. An ancient time led to ancient methods; in the future, tachyon particle technology had been strictly regulated after the third world war. Here they were new, experimental, and provided just the right amount of energy to speed up his body without either turning him into dust or giving him a heart attack. 

After the revelation of tachyons, getting home was easy. His equation wasn’t particularly complex, but it was effective, and the tachyon energy device he needed for it took barely any time to create. He could go home. He could, and yet—there was a part of him that didn’t want to. 

If he went back, he’d have to contend with the Flash. He’d have to contend with the Flash, after Eobard just killed his mother. There was very little chance he’d come out unscathed. 

Maybe he’d deserve it, he thought, the memory of Nora Allen’s dying body flashing behind his eyes. No matter what the Flash did, his mother had done no wrong. A part of him, even, masochistically looked forward to their next meeting, where the ensuing fight would grant him penance. Nothing cleansed the soul quite like pain, after all. 

He strapped the tachyon device to his suit, and prepared to run.

 

* * *

 

He opened his eyes to the 25th century, to freezing air and a late year snowstorm. The wind cut through the fabric of his suit, cold and cruel and hurtful. The snowflakes that pelted his face were icy and wet, and they hurt when they hit him. 

He shut his eyes against the onslaught, and closed his hands into fists. The snow did not relent. He ran again. 

He ran, and for a moment, it was addicting. It felt like if he didn’t keep himself in check, he could easily just keep going, and going, until the pain in his lungs wiped out the sins of his past. For one fleeting second, the thought was attractive: running and running and running, until he couldn’t think anymore. 

Yet, he didn’t. He couldn’t. He was stronger than that; he couldn’t just run away from his problems as if they might disappear eventually. He had to move on. 

So he went home. He tapped in the code to his lock lightning quick, and pulled the door open. He stepped inside, and stared at his apartment. 

Everything was the same. Everything was the same, even despite all that had occurred. Nothing had changed. Things were still strewn haphazardly across the couch, his tablet was lyingon the counter, next to a bowl of fruit. It was all so mundane. Normal. For some reason, he hadn't thought anything could be normal.

Across the room, he caught his reflection in the window, and for a moment, he was taken aback by the sight of a stranger standing there, eyes cold and shocked. 

Except—no. The stranger was him, but he was unrecognizable now. Gone were his mother’s green eyes, gone was the inescapable Thawne blond hair. Not only that, but—he had grown older. He had grown older so fast; there were lines around his eyes, now. His hair was thinner than it had ever been before. 

He was a stranger, he thought, unable to tear his eyes away from the reflection. It was wrong, it felt wrong. He shouldn’t look like that, he told himself, and though he fully knew why he did, he was repulsed by the sight.

There had been a sense of wrongness buzzing in the air ever since he entered the room. He had thought, at first, that it was the room that was wrong. It hadn’t been the room. It had been himself. 

He wasn’t right. He didn’t fit here, not anymore, not like this. He wasn’t the same Eobard Thawne that had stepped through those doors earlier, he wasn’t the same Eobard Thawne who lived here. He could never be that Eobard Thawne again. This place was only a reminder of that; it felt like everywhere he looked he could see his reflection, there was so much glass. He couldn’t avoid it, no matter what we did. His reflection stared back, a stark, dark reminder of what he had become.

This wasn’t him, he almost wanted to say. This wasn’t him. His reflection stared back, cold, and mocking. Murderer, his eyes said, as emotionless as justice. _Murderer._

He shut his eyes, but the image of Harrison Wells’s face remained, taunting him. He swallowed, despite the knot in his throat, despite the fevered beating of his heart. He’d never be able to escape this, he realized wildly, panic growing in his chest. He’d have to live like this. Forever. 

He couldn’t calm down. He scrunched his eyes shut, dug his hands into his— _Harrison Wells’s_ —hair, and he tried to breathe. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t think. His reflection was everywhere, and he couldn’t think, and he couldn’t stay here.

He couldn’t. This was the home of another Eobard Thawne, of the Eobard who loved Barry Allen and could never do any harm. This was the home of the Eobard Thawne who could still be considered good. This was the home of the Eobard Thawne who wasn’t a monster. 

He turned on his heel, and he shut the door behind him. He couldn’t stay there, but there were other places he could. So, he ran, and he ran, until he was out of central city proper, and it looked more like countryside than suburbs. 

He didn’t stop until he came across a pair of heavy, wrought iron gates, and even then he hesitated. The wind whipped through the branches of the trees, and the house that loomed before him was bleak and dreary. He hadn’t stepped foot into that house in years. He had never thought he would want to. Yet he had nowhere else, and beggars could not be choosers. 

He unlocked the gates, thankful that his parents hadn’t been so old-fashioned that they insisted on an actual key. He walked up the lawn, and opened the doors.

It was like something out of a horror film: a dark, empty manor filled with furniture covered in sheets, and a coating of dust over every surface. 

Home sweet home, he thought glumly, pulling the sheets off the sofa and dusting off the holoprojector. Even now, with his parents dead and gone, pressure still hung in the air as if they were still around. _Be better,_ the pressure said, like his father’s disapproving stare, _make the family proud._

At least it was only temporary, he told himself, even though he didn’t know when he’d leave. Maybe one day he'd get used to this body, this face. Until then, he’d stay here, where the curtains remained closed and the mirrors remained covered, and bad memories were par for the course.

He trudged along towards his childhood bedroom, pausing only to dust off his mother’s favorite knickknacks when the urge became to strong. She never would’ve let the house fall into such dire straits, and would have been so disappointed if she knew that he had let it lapse into such a state.

He reached his door and opened it, without pause. He flipped on the lights.

He felt vaguely nauseous. He had forgotten how he had left his childhood bedroom: covered from wall to wall in Flash memorabilia. He hadn’t taken most of it with him to college; his father had insisted that it was about time he grew out of it. It had stayed here. 

From every wall a Flash smiled at him, proclaiming heroic sentiments, or beating a villain. He couldn’t speak, and yet he wanted to cry out. _I loved you,_ he wanted to say, as if the posters were actually Barry, or the nebulous dream of his childhood hero. _I loved you, and lookat what you did to me._

He closed his eyes. He breathed. Staring here, at the remnants of who he used to be, would help nothing. 

He stepped back, and shut the door. He had to move on, or else he’d be haunted forever by the ghost of who he used to be, and the monster he became. He had to move on.

He closed his eyes, and pretended not to see Nora Allen's face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AKA in which im so done with this damn chapter it was so difficult to write and involved way too many explanations
> 
> also in which Eobard Thawne feels Guilt and experiences some sort of body dysphoria, which i imagine can happen after you kill a guy and then steal his body


	17. All of Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > Take my lips  
> I want to lose them  
> Take my arms  
> I'll never use them
>> 
>> You took the best  
> So why not take the rest  
> Baby, take all of me
>>
>>> Eobard managed to fill out paperwork, and send it out, but he didn’t do much else. The house, just like in his childhood, became almost like a prison that he could never escape. He didn’t leave; he couldn’t. If he left, it would mean showing his face for more than a quick run to buy food. It would mean that people would see him.

He knew, theoretically, that he looked just like any other man in the street. Yet the minute he stepped outside, he felt people’s eyes on him like brands. His skin itched, and he felt, despite how irrational it was, that somehow, they all knew what he had done. He felt, as if just from looking at him, they knew he was a man outside of his own body. They all knew what he had done. 

So he shut himself in. He canceled his lectures, and waited. It would all be fine, he tried to tell himself, once his hearing occurred, once he could lie to the world and tell them all that it was only an experiment gone wrong. Everything would be fine, when he could say _my name is Eobard Thawne_ and no one would be surprised. 

It wouldn’t be fine, he knew that much. He wouldn’t magically be able to look at himself in the mirror just because the government knew his name. Everything wouldn't just get better because he had signed some paperwork. 

It was easy to believe that, though. It was certainly easier than how he might never be able to look himself in the eye again, easier than knowing that the entire world would know what he had done. Oh, it would say on paper that it was a lab accident, but people would talk. People would always talk. 

So he stayed. He stayed, and watched old movies on the out of date hologram projector, or he found himself watching how the flecks of dust in the wind glinted in sunlight. Everyday spent in the house made it feel like time moved strangely, both longer and shorter than it should be. It felt almost as if the rest of the world simply didn't exist. As if Barry didn't exist. 

* * *

 

“Eobard Thawne,” Tina said, stepping into the room with a click of furious high-heels. “What on god’s earth do you think that you’re doing?” She flicked on the lights and stared down at him, looking as well-dressed and put together as Eobard wasn’t. 

“Go away, Tina,” Eobard grumbled into the pillow of the couch, refusing to look at her.

“I don’t think so,” She huffed, throwing open the curtains and letting in sunlight. “You’ve been staying in this house for far too long, Eobard. It’s not good for you.”

“How’d you even know I was here,” he said, curling pettily into the pillows. 

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous, Eobard,” she said, as if she had already explained everything. “I’m a lawyer.”

“That doesn’t mean you know everything.” No matter how much she’d like to claim that she did.

“It’s not very often you see a case involving body-stealing,” she said. “Especially not from someone with our last name. I’ve decided to take your case.”

He huffed. “I already said, it was a lab accident. That’s all you need to know.”

“Eo,” Tina said, and her voice was almost gentle, like a particularly clumsy attempt at soothing a spooked animal. Eobard could count the number of times Tina had called him _Eo_ on his right hand. She had never been one for nicknames. “You’ve come back to the old house. You haven’t spoken to anyone in more than a week. You’ve hardly left the damn house in the same amount of time,” she said. “There’s no way this is just an experiment gone wrong.”

“Tina.” His voice was sharp. “It’s best if you don’t know.” 

She looked for a moment like she wanted to say something, but then she didn’t. Her mouth formed a tight line, and her posture straightened. Gone was the attempt at sisterly tenderness; there was now only steadfast efficiency. Though Eobard could say what he would about her people skills, once Tina stepped into the courtroom she was someone else entirely. It apparently worked the same for whenever she was with a client, too. “Alright,” she said voice suddenly emotionless. It wasn’t cold—no. Just rational objectivity. Tina always worked best when things as messy as emotions weren’t involved. “Why don’t we talk about your case, then.”

Like they really needed to. Tina worked at the most prestigious law firm in the city, maybe the country. She made more in a year than some countries did in GDP, and it wasn't like this was any sort of criminal court case. It was only a hearing. Even though this was far beyond Tina’s area of expertise—she did corporate law, mostly—it wasn’t as if Eobard was on trial. There was no jury. There was no chance of the judge finding out what Eobard had done, and sending him to jail for the rest of his life. The most that could happen would be them saying he wasn’t the real Eobard Thawne, and that could be remedied with minor testing.

Still, he humored her, and they talked for a bit about the details of the case, and legal precedent. Well—Tina talked. Eobard mostly hummed in response. His mind, as it often did these days, drifted to Barry again. 

Had Barry planned for this all to happen? Surely not his own mother’s death, but everything else, maybe. For Eobard it had seemed like it all fell apart so quickly, so chaotically, there was no way anyone could have predicted it. Yet Eobard had been wrong before.

Maybe it had all been a plan, or an elaborate ruse. Maybe Barry was so focused on breaking Eobard into pieces that he didn’t care what happened to make Eobard into a monster—maybe Barry was such a monster himself that he didn’t care who got hurt in the progress as long as he turned Eobard into a monster, too.

No—Eobard could remember the horrified pain in the Flash’s eyes when Eobard had plunged the knife into Nora Allen’s chest.He hadn’t planned this. 

“—Eobard? Eobard.” Tina snapped, and her cool demeanor flickered into the same frustrated face she used to make whenever Eobard stole her chemistry set.“Are you even paying attention to me?”

“Of course I am, Tina,” he lied. 

She huffed, and pushed the hair out of her face. Her eyes swept across the room distrustfully. “This place isn’t good for you,” she said. “Don’t think I don’t know a fit of self destruction when I see one, Eobard.”

“I’m fine, Tina.”

As always, she continued, as if he had’t said anything in the first place. “Staying here, cooped up all day, isn’t good for you.”

“I’m fine, Tina.” He repeated.

“So you look a little different. You’re still Eobard Thawne. Anyone who can’t see that is fooling themselves. What about that Allen boy, the one you’re dating—I’m certain that if you told him what happened, he’d say the same thing. You’re still Eobard Thawne. You shouldn’t make yourself miserable just because of a tragic accident.”

He almost wanted to laugh. Once upon a time, Eobard would have believed that Barry would have said that. Barry would have said that, and he would have kissed Eo, and told him that Barry would always believe in him. 

The Barry that might have said that was a lie. An act. The Barry who might have said that never actually existed, just like how the real Barry never loved him, just like how Eobard was only ever a joke to him. All of it was only ever a joke to him—as if Barry Allen could ever love Eobard Thawne. How he must have laughed, at night, thinking about the look on Eobard’s face when he found out that Eobard’s childhood hero hated him, or how Eo would look when he found out the one man he trusted betrayed him—

He breathed. In, out, in, out. “Actually, Tina, Barry and I aren’t together anymore.” He said, and his voice shook with held back emotion.

“I see.” Tina said, and she wrung her hands, an old nervous tick. Tina never really knew what to do with emotions, let alone unpleasant ones. “My condolences,” she said. “Still, this is no excuse to lock yourself up in the house. I always did say you should see if those Rathaway-Ramons would consider polyamory—”

“Tina. Don’t.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Just don’t.”

“You just need something to cheer you up,” she said, coughing. “What about one of those Flash films you like so much? Which one was your favorite again, _The Flash Returns?”_

He swallowed. “I don’t care much for the Flash these days, Tina.”

“Nonsense. You’ve loved the Flash since you were eleven years old, Eobard. I find it difficult to believe that you simply stopped.” She scoffed. 

“ _Tina_ ,” he gritted out from between his teeth. “No.”

She faltered, and looked him over. “What happened to you over these past few months, Eobard?”

He closed his eyes. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters, Eobard.”

No, what mattered was that Eobard had looked into Barry Allen’s eyes as he murdered Barry’s mother, and any one of these days, the Flash would find him and demand recompense. What mattered was that Eobard was walking around in the body of the man he murdered. What mattered was that Eobard Thawne had an old bedroom filled with adoring posters of the same man who ruined his life. What mattered was that Eobard loved him, but Barry never loved him back, was never even capable of it. What mattered was that the past was golden and beautiful and a lie, and it could never, ever return. “It’s in the past, Tina,” he said, instead of any of this. “None of it matters now.”

“Alright,” Tina said, in that skeptical way that meant that this wasn’t the end of the subject. “If you say so.” She sighed. “I just—I just want you to be happy, you know that. You can’t do that from stagnating inside this house, Eobard.”

“I’ll be fine,” he said, and it felt like a lie. 

Tina looked at him with tired eyes, but she didn’t say a word. She simply buttoned up her blazer, and left with the echoing clack of high heels on hardwood. “Eobard,” she said, pausing before she rounded the corner. “I meant what I said. Try to do something that makes you happy.” Then she was gone. 

_Try to do something that makes you happy._ As if he could. When he was young, the answer would have been easy; escape to the magical world of the twenty-first century, where Central was protected by a powerful hero called the Flash. That was ruined for him, now. He couldn’t look at the Flash without being reminded of what he had done, without being reminded of what the Flash had done to him. Teaching was hollow and emotionless. Research held little appeal. 

Even being the Reverse brought him no joy. Not anymore. Being a villain was cold comfort, after what he had done. But—

There was no pretending that he could come back from this. The world saw him as a villain. It always had, but now they were right. Eobard couldn’t march right up to the Justice League and ask to be a member, now. He couldn’t even pretend to act as a hero. Everyone would cower in fear. 

The world might not know for certain what Eobard had done, but Barry did, and Central hung on to the Flash’s every word like he was a prophet sent down from the heavens. If Eobard had thought the world treated him as a villain before, he was in for an entire new world.

Fine, then. He was a monster now, wasn’t he? A villain. He wasn’t supposed to get a redemption arc, or a happy ending. He was the Reverse Flash. He might as well act like it.


	18. I Will Survive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > At first I was afraid, I was petrified  
> Kept thinking I could never live without you by my side  
> Then I spent so many nights Just thinking how you did me wrong  
> And I grew strong  
> And I learned how to get along
>> 
>>  
>> 
>> Go on now, go walk out the door  
> Just turn around now  
> 'Cause you're not welcome anymore  
> Weren't you the one who tried to break me with goodbye?  
> Did you think I'd crumble?  
> Did you think I'd lay down and die?  
> Oh no not I, I will survive
>>
>>> Eobard didn't know what he expected to happen, but this slow moving nothingness wasn't it. At first it had felt like time ceased to exist; now it felt like he was caught, perpetually, in the moment before the other shoe dropped.

_Tick, tock. Tick, tock._

He saw the Flash around every corner.

The old-fashioned grandfather clock struck twelve.

He told himself to calm down. The Flash would come after him, yes, but it would be when he was the Reverse Flash. The Flash wouldn’t just come after Eobard Thawne and expose him to be the murdering Reverse Flash—he certainly hadn’t shown up at the house yet. Eobard had only barely mentioned it to Barry before, anyway. Barry would never find him here, and that was part of why he chose this place. 

_Tick, tock. Tick, tock._

Perhaps if he began teaching again, he’d feel better. If he had some regular human interaction, some semblance of normalcy, that would be nice. Yet—if he began teaching again—

He might run into Barry. Or worse, Cisco and Hartley, who would most likely hate him as much as Barry did, if they knew. 

He canceled his classes, again. He made Alfred cover for him, when he could, but Alfred was Alfred, and chronology wasn’t that similar to history when it came down to it. The administration started sending him passive aggressive emails. He ignored them. 

He needed more time, he told himself. Maybe once he got his spirits up, when he was more confident in this body, then he could find the ability to walk in and give a lecture again. As for now, the thought of all of their eyes staring into him, as if they all knew, somehow, what he had done—he shuddered. 

He deleted his inbox without reading any of the messages. Baby steps, he told himself, and in the back of his mind he heard Tina saying _Do something that makes you happy._

* * *

 

It was weeks before he mustered up enough courage to appear again as the Reverse Flash. _They made you into a villain, so be one,_ he told himself, squaring his shoulders and throwing on his Reverse suit. 

Yet when he arrived in a flash of lightning to where the Justice League had finished arresting the villain of the week, he was met with no righteous anger, no attempts at revenge. The rest of the league rushed towards him, ready to take him down, but Barry—

Barry met his eyes, and then turned his head away. He didn’t run. He didn’t seethe. He just stared at Eobard with cold, cold eyes, and looked away. He turned in the other direction, and he didn’t run, he just walked, as if Eobard wasn’t worth the energy, or the time. As if Barry didn’t know Eobard at all. 

Eobard's heart fell into his stomach, something knotted up in his throat. Was this what Barry thought of him? Something unworthy of notice, as unnecessary as a bug found on the bottom of his shoe? Had he become nothing to him at all, invisible and empty and worth less than the ground Barry walked on?

The world slowed down, and narrowed—everything was reduced to watching Barry Allen walk away. It was unreal, it was incomprehensible. Eobard had killed his _mother_ , didn’t Barry want reparations, didn’t Barry want to fight him and break Eobard like he always did—

The Flash disappeared from view. 

Something cold and empty filled Eobard’s chest, even as he shook off the rest of the Justice League. It stayed there, cold and consuming and vast, like a spatial abyss. Even as he arrived, stumbling, back at the mansion, it clung to his every movement. 

Rain began to fall, he noted dully, staring out the window. He had loved rain. Yet now the nothingness spread across his entire being, and he couldn’t feel anything at all, except nothingness and cold horror. He collapsed onto the couch, and for a moment, he didn’t know why he was feeling this way. So Eobard didn’t matter to Barry. This wasn’t news. Eobard had never mattered to Barry at all, except as a thing to break apart and mold into something terrible and cruel. 

It wasn’t a surprise at all, and yet—

The one thing that had gotten Eobard through the endless weeks of blankness and waiting, was the thought of becoming the super villain Barry made him into. He would become historic. He would be great, and he would be horrible, and it would all have been because of Barry Allen.

Except there was no Reverse Flash without the Flash. If Barry chose not to acknowledge what he made Eobard, then there would be no point to it at all. Barry wouldn’t see what he had done, and Eobard didn’t know how to be a super villain without the Flash. 

Even after Barry Allen managed to steal everything from him, he still took the last bit of happiness Eobard had left. Even after everything that happened, Barry Allen still had that amount of power over him; no matter what, it seemed, Eobard would live at his command. 

He couldn’t breathe. His hands were shaking, and his his thoughts raced by one after another to the tune of his ungodly-quick speedster heartbeat. Barry Allen still ruled over him, even after Eobard tried to exorcise him from his heart. Yet Eobard couldn’t live without him, and that was as sickening as it was undoubtedly true. 

Being the Reverse Flash was the last thread of himself he had clung to. Barry had taken all of the rest: his friends, his trust, his life, everything. All Eobard had left was defying him, all and becoming something awful and terrifying and remembered throughout the ages. 

Yet that, too, was taken from him.

Something bubbled up inside of his chest, something hysterical and broken and angry. He should have known better. He should have known better. Whatever joy Eobard found in life, Barry Allen would rip it away and tear it to shreds. He would’ve thought he’d have known that by now. But even now, he was tinged with sentimentality. Even now, he had thought in the back of his mind, that the Flash would at least admit that he needed a Reverse; an opposite, a villain, the dark to the Flash’s supposed light. Things would have made sense, somewhat, then—the Flash was always made to have a Reverse. If that was why Barry had made him into what he was, then maybe, maybe Eobard could understand. 

Unfortunately, Eobard had forgotten that this was no damn Flash film; he had forgotten that the Flash didn’t need a Reverse, didn’t want a Reverse, and that Barry only made him into what he was for the sick fun of it. Eobard had forgotten that the minute Barry no longer found him interesting, the minute Barry got bored, he could just forget about Eobard entirely, and move on and break someone else instead—

His nails had driven themselves so hard into his palms that it drew blood. He breathed, shakily, and tried to force himself to relax. 

He didn’t need Barry Allen, he told himself. He didn’t need the Flash. He’d be so much better off if he never met Barry Allen that summer afternoon. If Barry wanted to attempt to forget him, fine, Eobard could forget him too. His life would be so much better for it.

The rain fell, and thunder struck. He had loved the sound of rain, once. He would love it again, someday. He took a breath, steady and long, and tried to forget Barry Allen's face.


	19. Operator (That's Just Not The Way It Feels)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > I only wish my words  
> Could just convince myself  
> That it just wasn't real  
> But that's not the way it feels
>>
>>>  

Eobard was surrounded by soft warmth. His eyes blinked open, and he found himself smiling the moment they did. Barry Allen lay in front of him, hair askew from sleep, and his creamy white skin out on display. 

“Eobard,” Barry murmured, smiling. “We have to get up.”He kissed him then, softly, like there was a promise for more. “God, I’ve missed you.” He hummed. 

Something tugged at the back of Eobard’s mind, like he was forgetting something, like something wasn’t right. Then Barry kissed him again, and all thoughts of something being wrong fled from his mind. “I missed you, too,” he said, leaning against Barry’s shoulder. Soft summer sunlight flooded in through the windows; birds chirped outside. “It’s been too long.” It felt like forever since he’d seen Barry last, since he kissed him last. Except, no, wasn’t that wrong? He’d seen Barry yesterday, of course. Barry lived here. He’d slept with Barry in his arms, like he always did. Of course. 

“We’ve got a busy day ahead of us, _Doctor_ Thawne.” Barry grinned. “The opening is today.”

“Opening of what?”

“Our Lab? Star Labs?” Barry laughed, shaking his head. “Sometimes I worry about you, Eo.” Barry leaned in and kissed him, soft and warm and perfect, and had the birds gotten louder? It didn’t matter. Barry Allen was in his arms, wonderful and soft, and the summer sun turned his hair golden.

He was beautiful, he was perfect, and he belonged to Eobard and Eobard alone. Eobard reached out to kiss him again—Barry had the most addictive lips—and he found himself caught up in the moment of it all. He was transfixed about the golden sun, Barry’s smiling face, the chirping birds.

The near deafening chirping of the birds—the chirping—

_Ring!_

Eobard Thawne woke up with a start, one hand reaching out for someone who wasn’t there. His heart dropped to the bottom of his stomach, and a bad taste settled in his mouth. _Forget,_ he told himself, as if it would work. As if forgetting would wipe away all traces of Barry, as if avoiding thinking about him would make him stop dreaming about him. 

It wasn’t even the dreams so much as the fact that they were good dreams. It wasn’t so much the dreams as the knowledge that even after everything Barry had done to him, he still held the keys to Eobard’s heart. It wasn’t even the dreams as the fact that he wished, for a split second after he woke up, that he hadn’t woken at all. He would give up reality, if it meant a happy dream. He would give it up gladly, if it meant that all of the terrible things Barry Allen did to him weren’t real, if it meant that Barry Allen loved him truly. 

That, of course, was the cruelest thing of all.

Eobard turned off his alarm, snd went to get dressed. Today was his first day teaching again. _Forget_ , he told himself, and it sounded more like a prayer than a command. 

* * *

 

He couldn’t forget him. Barry Allen’s face haunted his every movement. 

He knew it wasn’t going to be easy, he knew that Barry Allen had been the guiding factor of his everything for his entire life, but. He had hoped. He had thought that maybe, just maybe, if he tried, he could put it all behind him. He thought that maybe it was just sentiment that kept him from forgetting.

He had thought if he locked away all of his memories of him, all of his flash memorobilia, all of his pictures of Barry, all of his desperate domestic fantasies where Barry Allen told him he loved him, he could forget. He thought that if he went back to teaching, he’d be able to move on. 

“As you can see here, the consequences on the timeline from even recent time travel can be disastrous—” he demonstrated, scribbling onto the display. 

“Professor Thawne?” One of his students asked, raising her hand. “So far you’ve only talked about the consequences of past time travel. What if, like the Flash did, you were to travel into the future? What kind of consequences would that have?”

“Traveling into the future could have any number of consequences.”Like destroying someone's life who would have otherwise been fine, had you just stayed in your time where you belonged. "However it is widely agreed on that you will not change the future any more than any person from that time would. The real problem with future travel is that eventually, everyone wants to go back home." Except, apparently, Barry Allen, who wanted nothing more than to stay here and continue to destroy everything he touched."They obviously can not return home, especially in the case of the Flash, who has touched so many people's lives and —and become so integrated in Central City’s psyches—“ and ruined so many people’s psyches. His hands had turned into fists, had his jaw always been this tight? "—that even if it would be better for us all if he just disappeared, he can't go back, or at least he shouldn't, because the resulting shockwave on the timeline could be potentially disastrous—but who even cares about the timeline anymore, anyway? Certainly not the Flash." He was breathing heavier than before, his heart was thudding in his chest. 

"Are you...alright, professor?" His student glanced at him cautiously, like he was a spooked animal.

He ran a hand down his face. "I'm fine." He sighed. "I'm fine." Forget him, he told himself, and dig his fingernails into his palms. Forget him. "Like I was saying, time travel is a very finicky subject, that most of you will never have to face. Unless you have super powers you aren't telling me about, that is." The joke fell flat. He sighed. "Still, since a knowledge of theoretical time travel is requiredby the university, as well as most respected chronology circles, we still have to cover it."

* * *

 

He saw him in the hallway. Barry Allen looked his way and the entire world ground down to a stop. Barry Allen looked his way, and the world slowed down, and blossoms of pain and quickly-crushed adoration bloomed inside of Eobard. Barry Allen looked his way, and—his face didn’t change at all. His eyes were cold and emotionless, and they skated past Eobard without a care in the world. Barry kept walking, as if he saw nothing at all. 

It was so very easy for Barry to forget. 

* * *

 

"How was your first day teaching again?" Alfred asked. "Finally done asking me to cover for you?"

"I was convalescing, Alfred."

"For a month and a half?” Alfred raised an eyebrow, but moved on. “Well, I’m still not covering for you again. Even if you did ask me. If one more student tries to ask me how to explain the trans-temporal formula to them, I’m going to quit.”

“You wouldn’t quit, Alfred.” Eobard rolled his eyes, taking a sip of his coffee. 

“Just try me, Thawne,” he said. “What’d you do, anyway. To—you know.” He gestured to his face.

There was suddenly a pit in Eobard’s stomach that hadn’t been there before. “I told you. Chronology accident.”

“Yeah, but chronology is mainly theoretical. I know that much, at least, from having to teach your damn class for the past six weeks,” he said. “What’d you actually do.” 

Barry Allen’s cold face flashed in Eobard’s mind. Eobard shut his eyes and took a breath. “Let’s just say I got in with the wrong crowd, Alfred.” _Forget,_ he told himself, like the word was a magic spell that would make himself do it. _Forget._ “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Alfred stared at him for a moment. “Alright,” he said, and flipped on the holoprojector. 

As always, it switched onto Alfred’s preferred news Channel. _When Will The Reverse Flash Return?_ Ran across a banner, as the news anchors debated.For a moment, a cruel, cruel, moment, hope blossomed in his chest—had they realized? Had they finally realized that he wasn’t the bad guy, but the Flash was instead? 

“Central’s most prolific villain hasn’t been seen in nearly a month, the longest he has been gone since his appearance back in December of last year.” One news anchor announced. “The Justice League has issued a statement to us saying that this probably means he’s planning something bigger and more conniving than anything he has done before—what are your thoughts on the subject?”

“I definitely think that’s the case,” one of the other reporters said, a pretty blonde girl with glasses. “Supervillains—they don’t just disappear, you know. The Reverse Flash is a serious threat, as I’m certain everyone in Central City knows, and this absence is a definite answer saying that it’s only going to get worse from here.”

“Personally, I don't know what the big deal is with the with the Reverse Flash. He’s more of a pest than anything else—even historically,” the third reporter said. “After all, we all know that Captain Cold is the Flash’s real best villain.”

Eobard’s blood ran cold and hot, and everything stopped for one moment. Rage and disbelief pounded through his veins— _Captain Cold_ was the Flash’s best villain? _Captain Cold?_ As if the Flash and the Reverses destinies weren’t tied together, as if they weren’t both stuck in this endless cycle of hatred that was all Barry Allen’s fault, as if it was _Leonard Snart_ who had been destroyed and created by the Flash all at once—

There was a sound of something shattering. 

Oh. 

That was his coffee cup.

The world spun back into motion. Warm coffee spilt over his hand, his shirt, he had cut his hand on the broken ceramic, and he felt nothing except for startling, unadulterated rage.

“Jesus Christ Thawne, what did you do!” Alfred said, throwing him a handkerchief and inspecting the cut on Eobard’s palm. 

Captain Cold was nothing, compared to what Eobard could be. What Snart had done to the Flash was nothing compared to what Eobard had done. Snart was a great thief and a decent villain, but as far as nemeses went, he was nothing. He didn’t hate the Flash, after all. He didn’t want to destroy Barry Allen and everything he stood for, he didn’t want to burn Central City and all of it’s evil, traitorous memories to the ground. Villainy was a means to an end, for him. The Flash was nothing but a nuisance. 

Eobard had his entire life destroyed by the Flash. He had committed murder just to try and make Barry see what Barry Allen had done to him—and—and some overcompensating schmuck on the news decided to say that Eobard wasn’t even the Flash’s real nemesis? That everything that Eobard had done meant nothing? That he was nothing more than a long line of villains defeated by Central City’s perfect hero, a nobody. 

No. Eobard would make history, Eobard already had. The Flash and the Reverse were tied together by more than name alone, they had a destiny. They had a history.

He wasn’t just no one. No matter what this man said, no matter what Central City wanted to believe, no matter what Barry Allen pretended. He was Eobard Thawne. He was someone. He would be someone if it was the last thing that he did. It didn't matter what anyone else thought. He controlled his own destiny. He would be amazing, he would be memorable, he couldn’t just be forgotten. He was better than that. He would show them all.He was the best villain the Flash ever had, his name would live on for centuries. 

If this Barry insisted on ignoring him, he could always find a past Barry who wouldn’t. The Reverse Flash was best known for what he did in the 21st century, after all. 

It was about time that Eobard accepted his fate.

 

 


	20. Sinnerman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > But the Lord said, "Go to the devil"  
> The Lord said, "Go to the devil"  
> He said, "Go to the devil"  
> All on that day
>> 
>> So I ran to the devil, he was waiting  
> I ran to the devil, he was waiting  
> Ran to the devil, he was waiting  
> All on that day
>>
>>>  

Eobard Thawne stood in the twenty-first century, and reveled at the difference. The buildings were made of wood and concrete, the roads gravel, and the transportation stayed quaintly on the ground at all times.

Yet the past was not all that unlike the future. Oh, it was different, but the major parts remained the same: The Flash was still here, and he still caused Eobard pain. The Flash was still here, standing in the epicenter of Central City, in the middle of the currently-ruined Star Labs. The Flash was still here, smiling and laughing with his team, universally beloved while Eobard stared in like a voyeur.

 

The Flash stood, red and resplendent and so, so young. Something panged in Eobard’s chest, something like hurt but far too bitter, far too angry. This was Barry, younger, and as sweet as a siren’s call. Was this before he learned to lie, learned how to break hearts, learned how to get joy from other people’s suffering? Or had he known that from birth?

Had there ever been a version of him that wasn’t capricious and conniving? Had there ever been a version whose summer-sweet smiles weren’t a cold mask? Had there ever been a Barry who could have actually loved him?

He was such a good actor, his Barry. Such a good liar. Even now, staring at this younger version of him, the sight of Barry’s smiles still led to weakness, to rushes of affection that Eobard couldn’t quite suppress. 

This Barry moved in the charming, coquettish way his Barry did sometimes: as if he was unsure of his body, as if his limbs were too big and moved too far and too fast, as if he might lose control at any moment. That probably stemmed from his speed, he realized suddenly, of being afraid that Barry might slip suddenly and show his powers. Eobard had thought it had been from vestiges of teenage growth spurts. He swallowed. The motions suddenly seemed less charming.

No, this Barry must have been just as much of a liar as the other one was; this Barry must have been just as manipulative as any Barry. It was impossible to think of a version of him where, for once, his mannerisms were truthful. His trickery must have been innate, because Eobard couldn’t think of a single reason good enough to justify it all.

He came here to be a villain, he reminded himself. Villains did not just stare at their heroes. They were men of action. 

It was about time for a dramatic entrance. 

 

* * *

 

This wasn’t his Central City, he told himself, staring out at the skyline. All of these buildings had been destroyed years ago, he told himself. Everyone who lived here had been dead for centuries. If anyone got hurt because of him, it wouldn’t matter. They meant nothing to him.

Yet the words stuck in the back of his head, bitter and impossible to destroy, and he couldn’t shake the thought that they were all lies. 

Still, he squared his shoulders and glanced back towards the Flash, and the rage returned to him. He thought of the words _Captain Cold is The Flash’s best villain,_ and he forced his reservations to fall away. Villains weren't known as the best for being kind.

Central City wouldn’t even know what hit them, and Eobard was going to start with one Leonard Snart and his Rogues.

* * *

It wasn’t hard to tell that even as young as he was, this Flash was adored. A billboard announced the entrance of central city, and in the same stroke it declared it to be the home of the Flash. This Central, just like the one from the future, bled red and yellow. The air was heavy and humid and wet, and the sky was dark with an awaiting thunderstorm which hung heavy in the air, lightning just ready to be set free. He let himself dream, for barely a second, of the sun parting through the clouds and showering Eobard in warmth.

He had forgotten how much he loved the sun. But that wasn’t important right now.

He closed his eyes, and he ran. He didn’t have time for this. He had one goal and one alone: to defeat the Flash, and show the world that he was the most prolific villain the Flash would ever know. 

Thunder rippled across the sky, a warning.

* * *

 

_Saints and Sinners_ , by his time, was an unofficial Rogues museum. Technically, it was an actual bar, but that was only during the nights. By day, it gave tours to school children and Flash fans, historians and villain enthusiasts alike.It didn’t draw in anywhere near as many visitors as the Flash museum did, of course, but Eobard had been thereplenty of times. He’d been planning to ask Barry to come with him, once, to one of their twenty-first century music nights—

He clenched his jaw, and let go of that thought, staring down the seedy little bar in front of him. This was the place where Leonard Start had planned countless heists, where he and Mick Rory had taken the world by storm. This was the place where Captain Cold was King of crime, and the Rogues were his royal court. 

Eobard was going to destroy it all. 

He closed his eyes. _We all know that Captain Cold is the Flash’s real best villain,_ he thought, hands twisting into fists beside him.

He ran into the bar, breaking the door open, and stared down the clientele. Had he been younger, he might have felt a little faint: Lisa Snart leaned against one of the pool tables, Weather Wizard beside her, and Leonard Snart himself stared at him from the bar. 

“Well,” he drawled, staring Eobard down himself. “That was a bit rude, Flash. Last I checked we had an understanding.”

Eobard forced himself to stop vibrating, to slow down enough so he could properly speak. “Oh, I’m not the Flash,” he said. “Some might even call me the Reverse.”

* * *

 

Leonard Snart stared at him, face dotted with bruises and yet no less menacing. “Listen, Reverse, or whoever you are,” he said, rattling his hands in their cuffs as if trying to pick the 25th century lock. “I don’t know if you’re new here, but last I checked, beating up and kidnapping Central’s current mob boss isn’t the smartest idea. Killing me, even worse. So, what’s your game plan here, exactly?” 

“That’s no business of yours.”

“Oh, I think it is,” he drawled. “You see, the only way I can see you coming out of this in anyway unharmed is if you and I come to some sort of accord. So, _Reverse_ , what is it that you want?”

What did he want? Unbidden, his mind flickered to sunny skies, the sweltering heat of midsummer, of Barry Allen staring at him, guileless and in love. “I want the Flash to burn, and all of Central with him.” He wanted to wipe out the memories of him before they existed, he wanted for the Flash to hate Eobard like Eobard hated him, and most of all, he wanted to _stop loving him._ “I want to be watching when does.” He wanted for Barry to stare him into the eyes, for him to realize that for better or for worse that they could never forget each other, no matter what Barry tried.

“I can work with that,” Snart said, and it was almost certainly a lie. Snart, for all of his flaws, loved Central in his own strange way. He benefited from his relationship with the Flash, and he was only saying this to placate Eobard so he could escape. If Eobard listened to what he had to say, he’d just be agreeing that Eobard wasn’t good enough to destroy the Flash on his own.

“I don’t need your help,” Eobard said, and left.

Oh, he’d be back for Snart eventually. He was too important to the timeline. He’d let him go, but he couldn’t have Snart or his rogues messing up his plan. The more occupied they werewith finding their leader, the less they would be with him.

As for his plan, what was it that Iris West used to say, in that old Flash documentary? _“The Flash was brave, selfless, and true. Whatever he did, he did for others.”_ Perhaps he’d show her just how selfish the Flash could be. 

* * *

Iris West’s apartment from 2017, in his time, wasn’t remembered at all. It hadn’t been turned into a museum, it didn’t have a monument built in her honor, it didn’t have anything. Those things were reserved for her childhood house, the house she had spent her married life in, and West Park.The apartment had faded into obscurity, unnoticed and unremarkable, just like every other apartment in the city. The only reason Eobard had found the address was through sheer luck, back when he had been searching for proof that Edward Thawne and him were, in fact, related.

It was a completely nondescript apartment; brown door, small gold lettering announcing this to be apartment 22C, a rug that she probably kept a spare key under, because this was before the time of widespread passcode use. He could hear her moving inside behind the door, it would be so easy to just go inside, and—and—and what? He couldn’t hurt her, she was his ancestor. He didn’t particularly want to, anyway—he had lived and breathed the words she had written. He had poured over every letter of _The_ _Official Biography of the Flash,_ and every other article she had done of him. He had dreamed every night of the hero she portrayed, someone who was strong and brave and noble.

Except she lied. The Flash was none of those things. The Flash was cruel and cold and cared about nothing. The Flash pretended to love him, the Flash broke hearts and dreams, the Flash destroyed everything in his path. How blind must she have been, to believe otherwise?

He left, and didn’t look back. Doing anything to her would accomplish nothing, nothing at all. 

He wanted to be a villain, a proper villain. He wanted to burn away all memories of the Flash. So he would. He would be the villain they all thought he was; he’d be the worst villain that Central City had ever seen. He’d destroy everything in his path if he had to, but he’d show Barry—he’d show them _all,_ that Eobard was no one who could just be forgotten at the drop of a hat. Eobard was the Reverse Flash. Their fates were tied together whether Barry Allen liked it or not, and Eobard would make Barry see him. He was the Reverse Flash, the Flash’s worst enemy, and at the very least, he would always be that. The Flash, no matter how hard he tried, could never take that away from him. Eobard would never allow it. 

After everything Barry had done to him—being forgotten was not an option. 

* * *

Central was a mess of electricity, fire, and rage.

Barry stood in front of him, and the world around them burned. He was still beautiful. He was still beautiful, and Eobard hated himself for realizing that above all else. “Who are you?” He called, cold and and confounded and angry.“Why are you doing this?”

“I am the monster you created. Your Frankenstein, your _Reverse.”_ He hissed, his speed masking his voice.

“What?” Barry cried. “I don’t even know who you are.”

“Not yet.” Eobard said. “You will,” he said, “and one day, you will know everything you did to deserve this.” Even if that day was not today, or tomorrow, or a thousand years from Eobard’s time. One day, the Flash would know. Eobard was certain of it. 

“What on earth could I—could anyone have done to deserve this?”

Eobard laughed, a cruel cold thing, thinking: _You’d make a far better Flash than he ever could, Eo,_ and of the way Barry used to smile after Eobard kissed him.  “You’ll see,” He said, and shut out the memories before he could be overcome with the thought of how Barry had loved him, loved him, loved him—except he never did. “One day, you’ll see.” He thought of Barry, walking away, as if Eobard never existed at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaa sorry this is late! This chapter has just been really tough to get out, I'm not sure why? I hope you all had a great Fourth of July! <3


	21. Che Vuole Questa Musica Stasera

The world didn’t change. He didn’t know why he expected it to. Yet it felt wrong, somehow, knowing that he had just gone back and committed his first act of true villainy, and his life here remained as unchanging as ever.

He had done something, finally. Yet Barry still acted like he was nothing. He didn’t glance Eobard’s way, he didn’t say a single word. Eobard Thawne was a ghost, according to him. Nonexistent and unworthy of regard. 

The other Barry, at least, had recognized him. The other Barry had stared at him like the fate of the world rested in Eobard’s hands, and for a moment, Eobard had felt like a god. The world had been at his fingertips, and the Flash had been powerless against him. For once in his life, he had the upper hand. For once, he won. 

Barry had stared up at him, and his eyes were green. No one else had eyes like that. He didn’t even try to disguise himself; it must not have mattered to him. After all, how would Eobard know who he was from his eyes alone?

His Flash had no such illusions. He never met Eobard without disguising himself, without blurring his features beyond all recognition. 

Yet this Barry stared at Eobard as Central City burned around him, and his eyes were green. Green like growing things, green like springtime. And Eobard—

Eobard was something again. The world shifted on its axis; Barry Allen stared at him and suddenly he was king of the world. It was glorious, it was addicting, and it felt as if the high could last forever.With Barry staring at him like that, everything could last forever. 

Then they fought, and Eobard disappeared into the future. Then the crash came after the high, like the realization that it was still only dreary, gray, late April, and not mid-June. The crash came, and Eobard found himself like every other addict who ever was, desperate for his next fix. 

The weather only furthered his restlessness; dull gray skies and a heavy, wet, chill that defined all sorts of cloudy days in spring. His heart beat too fast and his hands were electric and jittery; He wanted to show the world that he was better than Barry Allen, that he was above Barry Allen, that he had beaten the Flash and Central City and every thing in it. He wanted to make Central know who he was, and what they had made him done. He wanted for the city to cower at his feet and beg for forgiveness.

Yet the skies were gray and time moved slowly, and no one looked twice at Eobard Thawne.

Rain dripped outside his office window, the slow meandering drops that had been pestering the city for weeks. _April showers bring May flowers,_ but it was nearly May, and the gloom persisted. Eobard hadn’t seen the sun in weeks. 

“They say it’s going to be nice this weekend,” Alfred said, breaking the deafening silence that had settled over Eobard since the moment he walked in the room. “Since it’s the beginning of May, and all. I promised Bruce I’d take him to West Park.”

“Hm,” Eobard mumbled, staring over the bleak courtyard. The snow had all melted away, but the rain made the trees wet and black, and the leaves still had yet to sprout. The grass was spread in patches of yellow-brown and green, though the colors were dulled by the gray sky. 

“‘Course, it’s not like the weather men are known for being right.”

“No,” Eobard said, turning away from the window and back to his essays. “They’re not.”

It kept raining.

* * *

 

Saturday, Eobard woke up to the same endless rain, and the need to break out of this monotony was itching incessantly in his chest. Yet the curtains opened, and there was only gray, and he knew, immediately, that he wasn’t going to spend the day in this century. 

It wasn’t really a rash decision. He had known, somehow, that it would always come down to this. He’d known that artificial summer of time travel would be far more alluring than the present, he’d known that he’d never be able to stay away from the promise of grandeur and glory. 

He’d known he’d find himself dreaming of Barry Allen’s green eyes wide with defeat. 

It wasn’t a rash decision. It wasn’t much of a decision at all, really. More like gravity, or fate: an inescapable force, pushing him to be where he was meant to. 

All it took was a blur of running through Central until he was gone again, in the past.

* * *

After that second time, it became a habit.

* * *

 

“Still with the same act, Reverse?” Leonard Snart drawled at him from where he was restrained, rolling his eyes. “Tie me up, go destroy the city, have a little tete-a-tete with the Flash, and then leave? Where’s the profit in that?”

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” Eobard said tersely. 

“Try me,” Snart drawled, but Eobard knew better than to fall for that. If Snart knew what motivated him, Snart could manipulate him. That was all this was. 

Eobard ignored him, and tied the ropes tighter. 

“Just think about it. There’s so much more you could be doing with your time.” He paused. “My rogues could use someone with your…skillset.”

Please. Leonard Smart would ice him the moment he had the chance, for forcing him to go through the indignities of being kidnapped. “No.”

“You want to watch the world burn, fine,” he said. “I happen to know someone who’s good with fire.”

“No.” Eobard gritted his teeth together.

Snart acquiesced, but his jaw tightened with irritation.

Eobard pulled the rope tight. 

“You know, for someone who wants to see the city destroyed, you have a tendency to run off before the job is done.” Snart drawled instead.

Silence.

“Maybe you should rethink your priorities.”

* * *

 

Time after time, he ran back, until the individual attempts seemed to blur into nothing but fragmented memories, each different and yet somehow all the same. There was always electricity, destruction, and Barry’s accusing eyes: a flash of green amongst the burning red and gold.

It was a fight, it was a dance; it was seduction and pain and glory all at once. The high was better than any drug, and the crash was worse than any one, too. He couldn’t stop himself from going back, no matter how hard he tried. Days in his own time were colorless, gray things that hardly seemed real at all, but in the past, Barry Allen would look at him. In the past, Barry Allen would fight with him, and it wasn’t truly penance and it wasn’t truly justice, but Eobard had given upon caring.

Barry Allen looked at him, cold and cruel, and the entire world rushed to a stop. Adrenaline and fury and hatred coursed through his veins, chased by something delicate and repenting and gentle which he pushed far far away.

Barry Allen looked at him, and Eobard could find enough strength to destroy worlds. 

* * *

He had the Flash in his grasp, close enough to kill, close enough to _kiss—_

“Why are you doing this?” Barry choked, and his eyes were full of venom but they still were beautiful. 

He could feel Barry’s pulse against his palm, deceptively delicate for something that kept the Flash alive. It sped up, too quick for anyone else to count, but clear enough to Eobard. _Ba-bump, Ba-bump. One, two, three, four._

The moment seemed to last an eternity, punctuated only by Barry’s beating heart. His eyes widened, minutely, and his hands came to paw weakly at Eobard’s hand wrapped around his throat. In that moment, Barry’s life lying carefully in his hands, that it seemed almost laughable he hadn’t seen it before. 

Barry’s mark was everywhere. Even through the mask, it was still visible. His eyes were the unmistakable spring-green Eobard had drowned in, his skin was still creamy white and ever so soft. Eobard could still recognize his voice, beneath the distortion. It sounded like a siren’s song, haunting and deadly. 

He wanted to kiss him, he wanted to kill him. He wanted to bury his face in Barry’s neck and never leave, he wanted to grab Barry’s heart in his hand and crush it, so that Barry might know what heartbreak felt like.

_Ba-bump._

“You were everything to me, once.” He said, but that wasn’t quite true. “I loved you,” he said, his thumb tracing along Barry’s pulse. 

“You loved me?” Barry barked a cruel, breathy laugh, and the disbelief in his voice was enough to make Eobard want to destroy, want to die; anything to escape the fact that for a brief moment he had fallen prey to Barry Allen’s cruel charms once again. 

His hand tightened almost reflexively, and he watched Barry struggle in his grasp for a cruel moment. Then Barry’s limbs grew weak, too weak, and his eyelids drifted shut. 

Eobard dropped his hand as if burned; Barry fell to his feet, coughing. 

“If this is how you love, then I don’t think you’re capable of it.” Barry’s eyes were cold. He held one hand to his once-pale neck, now turned a splotchy purple.

Eobard felt sick.

“I could never have loved you.”

* * *

He ran away from Barry’s accusing eyes, and yet they still followed him. He ran and he ran until he couldn’t run any longer, and they still haunted him. Even once he arrived, winded and anxious, back in his own time, they were still there.

_If this is how you love, I doubt you’re capable of it,_ was what Barry had said, but what did Barry know of love? Nothing at all.

_I could never have loved you._ Eobard wasn’t sure why it still hurt. He knew already that it could never have been real for Barry, he already knew Barry never cared about him at all. Yet somehow the words cut through him like a knife, cold and aching, and god, Eobard was so _tired._ He was tired of Barry, tired of the Flash, tired of being cruel and tired of breaking his heart so much because he was a hopelessly optimistic and still, somehow, in love.

He lied back on his bed, and listened to the rain. A chill had sunk into his bones, but he didn’t bother to turn up the heat. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so im sorry this is so, so late; I've been on vacation! and while you'd think that two 7 hour plane rides would make me write more...they didn't
> 
> anyway im so done with this chapter y'all have no idea let it burn a fiery death im so done with it ugh
> 
> but here, since i've been giving y'all nothing but angst for the past...forever, here's a fluffy eobarry drawing i did the other day https://here-comes-all-the-cotton-candy.tumblr.com/post/163841006823/lunch-date-in-paris-d-final-version-lols#notes 
> 
> i hope that y'all have had a good July!!! :D


	22. Tears On My Pillow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > You don't remember me, but I remember you  
> T'was not so long ago, you broke my heart in two  
> Tears on my pillow, pain in my heart  
> Caused by you
>>
>>>  

Loneliness cut through him like a knife.

He hadn’t gone back in time for weeks. That was fine. Everything was fine. The days flew by, and he was absolutely fine. 

He didn’t look Barry in the eye, but that wasn’t new. They had already been avoiding each other like the plague; it was hardly a change at all. There wasn’t much of a chance to look in Barry’s eyes, anyway. The only time he could would be when Barry passed outside his window—though he always did look, for a few guilty, painful seconds. Eobard took in alabaster skin and bronze hair, but the sight burned his heart, and left him sick with the words _I could have never loved you_ racing through his mind. As if Eobard was the one undeserving of love. As if, before Barry decided to destroy Eobard’s heart, Eobard had been anything other than good.

Yet that was old news, now. There was no point of thinking about Barry, not anymore. He knew it only brought pain and suffering. He knew it made him into the worst part of himself. He knew it, and yet—he couldn’t stop looking. He couldn’t stop his head from swiveling towards the window whenever Barry walked past, he couldn’t stop the poisonous feelings in his chest. He couldn’t stop from thinking _what did I ever do to deserve you in my life,_ or _are you so good an actor, or was I just a fool to think you could ever love me,_ or even _how could I have ever loved you in the first place. How could anyone have loved you at all._

He watched Barry walk by, laughing at some joke Hartley or Cisco made. Eobard didn’t look at his eyes. They held too much fake emotion; they were the eyes of a siren: meant to draw you in and then tear you apart. No. They were only cruel and cold to him now, no matter what feeling was held with in them. He knew it was all an act. No matter what feelings Barry’s eyes would try to remind him of, he’d only feel bitterness and pain. 

He didn’t look at Barry’s eyes. He wouldn’t. Yet he did look elsewhere—where his neck met his shoulder, the dip of his collarbones, the spindly columns of his fingers and the angles of his knuckles. He looked, and he couldn’t stop, even despite the sickly, pained hatred that crawled in the pits of his stomach. He stared on, instead, in sick fascination, as if staring would provide him with answers as to why Barry did what he did. 

Yet the same arms that caressed him and fought him held no answers, nor did the pink of Barry’s lying lips. The white skin of Barry’s throat only had the shameful memories of his hand wrapped around it, the green if Barry’s eyes burning into him as he did so—but that was nothing to him, too.

Then Cisco wrapped an arm around Hartley, smiling, and that drove a stake right into his stomach. _They had known too,_ a cruel little voice in the back of his mind crooned, _they had known, and they had done nothing about it._

That was a revelation his travels brought him, one that clawed what remained of his heart into pieces, but maybe he should have guessed it. Hadn’t he asked Hartley, once, if he or Cisco had been related to _the_ Hartley Rathaway and Cisco Ramon, the world renowned scientists from he twenty-first century? They laughed him off, of course, but he should have realized: the Vibe’s abilities were not well documented, but people had been theorizing about his extended lifespan since 2050, when he and the Pied Piper were still well known heroes and yet hadn’t aged a day. 

It even made sense: they knew the most obscure facts about daily life in the twenty-first century, but they weren’t obsessed. They shared important historical discoveries as if it was common knowledge. No one could ever remember when they joined the faculty, not even them. 

He should have realized, yet he was completely unprepared when he saw them, four hundred years in the past, exactly the same in 2015 as they were in 2430. The Vibe—and the Pied Piper, even, in the early 2020s—were part of the Flash’s team. They fought him because he fought the Flash, and when he saw exactly who was behind the gauntlets and goggles, well. 

It wasn’t like betrayal was a new emotion, these days. Someday soon, it might even lose its hold on him, like exposure therapy, and he might be able to live out his life without the sickening sensation clawing at his insides and gutting him with an icy knife. That day was not today, but it was a pretty thought. 

He looked away from Hartley and Cisco. There was no use thinking about them. No use thinking about how they knew, they knew the entire time and they just watched like it was a game—

He looked away. He looked away, and in his carelessness broke his only rule: he looked straight into Barry Allen’s eyes.

They were springtime green. He had forgotten that. He had forgotten how soft they could be, how warm. He had forgotten how even now, after all this time, they could still make his knees weak, and his heart tremble. 

Then, breaking their unspoken rule that kept Eobard sane, the unthinkable happened: Barry Allen looked up and glanced at him. Their eyes met. Barry’s face turned cold, and Eobard’s heart was seized with indescribable anger and pain.

Was this how Frankenstein’s creature had felt, when faced with his creator? Was this how he felt, when Frankenstein made monsters and then had the gall to be horrified by his own creation. When he blamed the monster for his tragedies as if they weren’t the fault of the man’s own cruelties. 

Yet the creature hadn’t loved Frankenstein, before Frankenstein forsook him. The creature hadn’t loved and trusted before Frankenstein made him into a monster. The creature wasn’t addicted to Frankenstein’s eyes, even now, even despite the hurt. The creature didn’t want to drown himself in the color of springtime; he didn’t want for those eyes to be gone forever and yet still never leave—

“I’m thinking about getting Bruce a copy of the Flash biography for his birthday,” Alfred said, dragging Eobard’s attention away from the window. “Any thoughts?”

“Don’t do it,” he said. “There’s nothing in it you couldn’t learn from a comic book.” It was all just fiction, anyway. What was it Iris West had written, in that cursed book that had stolen his heart? _The Flash was brave, selfless, and true. Whatever he did, he did for others._

She must have been even more of a fool than he was.

Maybe she was. She may have married his ancestor, but before he had discovered that, the most prominent theory about her life had been that she loved the Flash. That she loved him so much she had devoted her life to his memory.

How could she have loved him? _The same way you did, of course,_ a cruel voice said in his mind, _he drew her in with with his pretty face and pretty words, and she found herself incapable to stop loving him, even after he broke her heart._

Yet the biography wasn’t written by someone who hated that they loved, by someone whose heart had been broken again and again. Yet it was impossible for him to not have broken her heart. She knew him for years on end, at least a decade if not longer. Eobard hadn’t even known Barry a year before he went on his quest to destroy him. He was too cruel to not have broken her heart at least once.

Even if he didn’t break her heart, he must have shown his true colors at one point; he must have broken someone else’s dreams in front of her, he must have been unkind or capricious or cold. Yet not once in that book did she reproach him, no. It was only paragraph after paragraph of adoration, of _this is what made the Flash a true American hero, maybe the best there’s ever been._ She spoke of him as human, and yet idolized him to the masses—

How could she have loved him?

The question haunted his mind. It was enough to make hm go searching through his own copy of the book, even though he knew it backwards and forwards. It was enough to make him go searching for some kind of admission of how awful the Flash was, even if it was spun in a way to make him be loved. 

There was nothing. All terrible parts must have been cut out and erased, expunged from history as if they had never existed in the first place. She took a monster and made him into a hero; she glorified him, canonized him, made all the world love him and left their hearts at his alter. 

Why? How? He didn’t deserve it. Yet she wrote a book that made him into a legend, a hero, someone to dream about and rally behind, and dedicated it: _For my best friend, the bravest man I’ve ever known._

 

* * *

Showing up at Iris West’s door in 2026 didn’t even seem like a rash decision, compared to his other rash decisions. It felt, instead, something like inevitability; it felt like his tired soul reaching out for some sort of reason.

He pulled the cowl off his face, and ran fingers through his hair. There was no use in making her think he was here to kidnap her, after all. He knocked on the door, polite but too loud to ignore. He waited.

The door opened. “I’m here to talk about Barry Allen,” he said, and there must have been some kind of look in his eye, because her cautious expression softened almost immediately. 

Oh, she was still cautious, he could tell, but she took a step back, opened the door further, and let him in anyway. 

The apartment was quaint, metropolitan with vague french influences, harking back to earlier times. If Eobard had been younger, he would have been amused: how strange that he had traveled in time only to find that the past romanticized their past. But he was not young, and he was so tired of the past.

Multicolored candies sat in a jar on the countertop, bright and cheerful. There were magazines stacked on a coffee table, dirty dishes in the sink. It was cute, lived in. The kind of sweet domesticity he used to dream about.

“Well?” Iris West said, arms crossed in front of her chest, standing decisively in front of a block of her kitchen knives. “What is it you want to know.”

“What do you see in him?”

“I’m sorry?” She blinked. 

“Barry Allen. The _Flash_ ,” he spat the name out like the mere word was poisonous. “How can you—“ He grasped at straws, trying to explain, somehow, the emotions that warred in his chest. “All he does is destroy. Everyone who loves him, he breaks apart—What about him deserves reverence. What part of him deserves to be rewritten into the greatest hero Central City’s ever known? Why would you write him as if he was Lancelot, or King Arthur, when he was only ever Morgana Le Fay?” He swallowed. “What part of him made you still admire him. What part of him made you want to make the world love him, too.” He didn’t look at her in the eyes. He didn’t look at her at all. 

She was quiet, for a moment, and moved her arms down to her sides. “I’m not going to lie and say that Barry was perfect,” she said. “He wasn’t,” she continued, and met out his eyes defiantly. “He made mistakes. He was human. But he deserved to be remembered as the man he wanted to be. The man he always tried to be. The man who I think the Flash was.”

“The lie that you thought the Flash was.” He bit out before he could stop himself. “The lie you made us believe that he was.”

“Was it really a lie? I don’t think so,”She said, and there was a faraway look in her eye. He was reminded, suddenly, that as far as Iris West had ever known, Barry Allen died in 2024. “Exaggeration isn’t necessarily a lie. He was the bravest man I ever knew. He was my best friend. The fact that he was also an impulsive idiot who made terrible decisions—those parts don’t matter.”

“It’s more than just impulsive decisions, it’s more than just omitting his mistakes,” he protested. “He was a villain. A monster. What part of that deserves a elegy that lasts for centuries?”

“Last I checked, you were the villain in this story,” she said, staring straight into his eyes like she could see into his very soul, taking in his rumpled hair, his deadened eyes, “But you don’t look very villainous to me.”

“I’m only the villain that he made me be.”

“Somehow…I’m not sure if I doubt that.” She said. “Barry has a tendency to bring out the best sides in the people he loves…but also the worst, too.”

He laughed, a cold, joyless thing, thinking of summer days and winter nights. “He does.”

She hummed. “What’s your name?”

“Eobard,” he said, before he could stop himself. 

“Maybe you should come back again, Eobard.”

“Maybe.” 

“Eobard?” She said. “I take it he’s alive, wherever it is you’re from?”

“He is.”

A smile graced her lips, but he couldn’t bring himself to hate it. Her statue didn’t do her justice.

He returned back to his time feeling somewhat lighter than he had before, and yet he had found no peace. So Barry Allen wasn't a monster to everyone. That didn't mean he wasn't a monster to Eobard. Yet if Barry wasn't cruel to everyone, that still left him with the age-old question: what had Eobard done to deserve this? 

He had no more answers than before. Yet as he stared at the rain dripping down off the irises in West Park, he thought it might be nice to have someone to talk to.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So!!! this will be the last update for a bit, bc as of September 1st I'm officially a college student!!! I'll still try to keep up with the fortnightly updates, however, but who knows how it'll actually turn out.


	23. Empire Builder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, forget I said love  
> And also, don't forget I said love  
> We are not alone and we are more alone than we've ever been  
> So hurry up and lose me  
> Hurry up and find me again

She was older, the next time Eobard visited. He hadn’t meant to jump so far in her future, but sit didn’t really matter. Her eyes were still kind and faraway, even with small crows eyes crinkling in their corners. 

“Hello, Eobard,” she said, finding him in her garden, wet from recent rain. 

“Iris,” he said, dragging a his jacket closer around his shoulders.

She took one look at him and sighed, before ushering him indoors. He let himself be manhandled, and a warm feeling grew inside of his chest.“Eddie,” She called, “we’re going to have one more for dinner.”

Eddie. His ancestor? Most likely. Eobard wondered if they were anything alike, if Edward Thawne had the same drive for greatness, the same single-minded tendencies half of the Thawne family was cursed with.

Or perhaps—perhaps he was more like Gideon, fascinated with exploration and kinder than anyone would have guessed. If Iris West could love him, then he probably was. 

She sat him down at the kitchen table, prodded a mug of tea in front of him, and finally addressed him. “It’s been a long time.”

“Not for me.”

“No,” she said, staring at him. “I don’t think it has.” She picked up her own mug of tea and sat beside him, staring out the window at the garden. “What brings you here?”

Unbidden, a question rose to the top of his mouth and escaped: “Is it possible to forget him?”

She smiled, a sad little thing. “No.”

“Then I guess I just wanted to see a friend.”

* * *

 

Someone knocked on Barry’s door. “Professor Allen?” 

He glanced up. “Yes, Annika, what is it?”

Her hands fidgeted with the hem of her skirt. “It’s—um, it’s—I’ve come to talk to you about Professor Thawne.” 

_Thawne_. It was like someone had knocked all of the air out of Barry’s chest.He swallowed. “What about Professor Thawne?”

“I’m worried about him.” 

“Why so?” He struggled to keep his voice even. 

“I know you two were close, once.” Understatement. “So I was wondering if maybe, you could help him. He’s…different than he used to be, and it’s not just the face. He doesn’t get excited anymore, he’s withdrawn. I even tried bringing up the Flash last week to cheer him up, but it didn’t work. He loves the Flash. In the beginning of his dissertation he cites the Flash as the reason he went into chronology. He used to bring up the Flash in every lecture. There’d be bonus points for Flash trivia on half his exams, and over half the chapters of _The Official Biography of The Flash_ are required reading.”

“I don’t know what you expect me to do about any of this,” he said, but his mind flashed back to Eobard’s deadened eyes through the window of his office, and the dark circles that framed them.

He had looked _terrible._

_He killed your mother,_ he reminded himself. His mother, who had done nothing wrong in her life, and Eo— _Thawne_ had killed her, as if she meant nothing.He had loved Eobard. He had. Eobard had been sunshine and light and everything Barry ever wanted, but—

Thawne was none of those things. He was the Reverse Flash. He was the Reverse Flash, which meant all the love he had for Barry had been a lie. 

Except—Eobard had been so happy, once. Barry could still remember the way he used to look, the way his face would light up whenever he talked about the Flash, the way he’d almost vibrate with excitement in his seat whenever he watched a Flash film. He had been so happy. Too happy to fake. 

Yet if it hadn’t been fake—nausea churned in Barry’s gut. He pushed away the thought. It had to have been fake. It had to. If Eobard loved hadhim, he would have never killed Barry’s mother. If Eobard had loved him, he would never have became a villain.If Eobard had loved him, he would never have became the only villain devoted solely to hurting Barry—he’d never have become the Reverse Flash.

If Eobard loved Barry, he would have been incapable of hurting him.

_Right_. _Just like how Barry was incapable of hurting Eobard_ , a voice too close to Iris’s deadpanned. No— He wouldn’t think about that. It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t put a gun up to Eobard’s head and ask him to become the Reverse Flash. He didn’t tell him to go back in time and wreck Central City; he didn’t ask him to murder his mother. Eobard did all of that by himself. It wasn’t Barry’s fault.

Yet Barry could still see the way the light had faded from Eobard’s eyes when Barry had done that interview. He still saw emotionless slump to Eobard’s shoulders on those winter days when Barry ignored him. He remembered how Eobard left him messages that decreased in enthusiasm with every passing day that Barry didn’t respond. He remembered— _I miss you,_ Eobard had said, back when he was blond and Barry’s. His hands twitched towards his communicator; he still had the message. 

Barry didn’t reach for it. He didn’t need to see the look on Eobard’s face, or the resigned tone in his voice. Annika was still here, after all, and Barry had been doing what he thought was best. He wouldn’t apologize for that. He had needed to stop Eobard from becoming the Reverse Flash; it didn’t matter that his plan didn’t work. 

It didn't matter, he told himself, and tried to forget how it all started in fall, when Barry couldn’t let Eobard love the Flash. If he had just let him be, maybe none of this would have happened. If he had just let go, allowed Eobard to love what he loved, his mother would still be alive. The Reverse Flash would never have existed, if Barry had never done that interview. 

No. No, it wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t. He did what he thought was best. 

Except, was it really the best, or was it just what was best for him? Eobard had done nothing, and Barry ridiculed him on public television. He had picked up the pieces, and then he pushed him away again.

It wasn’t Barry’s fault. Eobard had murdered people. It wasn’t as if Barry asked him to do that. 

_“The one thing I loved most of all took my dreams and my love and broke it apart.”_

No. He wouldn’t think about that. He didn’t need to be reminded of the day his mother was murdered, he didn’t need to hear what Eobard said. It wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t his fault. Yet—

“I’m worried about him.” Annika said again, dragging him back into the present. “Please, if you could just talk to him. You know I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it was important.”

—Barry had destroyed him. 

It wasn’t his fault, he attempted to protest, yet when the idea had appeared everything came tumbling down. Eobard could have never loved him, he protested, how could you love someone and then rip them apart—

_“You took everything I loved about my childhood and tore it to shreds.”_

It wasn’t his fault. Eobard never loved him—

_“You decided to pretend to love me just so you could break my heart.”_

No—it was the other way around—Eobard became the Reverse Flash, and it had to have been to spite Barry—it wasn’t his _fault._

Except—if Eobard hadn’t known that Barry was the Flash, if he hadn’t picked his costume to be cruel and chose his name afterwards, then—when Barry disappeared and turned out to be the cold, mocking Flash, it must have felt so cruel. 

_“You were—you were_ everything _to me. And then you ruined it.”_

It wasn’t his fault. Eobard could never have loved him. Except, hadn’t the Reverse Flash told him once that he loved him, back before Barry had ever met Eobard? And Barry had said—Barry had said: “ _If this is how you love, then I don’t think you’re capable of it. I could have never loved you.”_

He felt vaguely ill. If Eobard did love him—if Eobard had loved him—he couldn’t think about that. Yet he was struck again by the image of Eobard’s eyes, the last time Barry saw him: dead and cold and hauntingly blue. 

“Please, Professor. I’m worried about him. About what he might do.”

Barry went cold. Eobard’s lifeless eyes stared at him from the back of his mind. Yet surely Eobard couldn’t—surely he wouldn’t—why did Barry even care what happened to him? Eobard had killed his mother.Barry shouldn’t have cared what happened to him. He should have been moving on. He should have been finished with Eobard Thawne.

Yet if Eobard had loved him after all, then Barry had destroyed him. All while pretending he was doing it selflessly out of love. He destroyed him, and he didn’t look back once, because he thought it had been Eobard in the wrong.

Eobard had done nothing until it had been too late to turn back. Until he realized the same person he called a villain was the one he loved. Eobard had done nothing until Barry ruined him first.

It all started because of him. But his mother, some part of him continued to protest. It couldn’t be his fault. Except—they must have both thought of it that way, didn’t they? Eobard killed his mother, it wasn’t Barry’s fault; Barry broke Eobard’s heart and ridiculed him, it wasn’t Eobard’s fault. 

Outside, it began to rain.

“I—I’ll see what I can do, Annika,” he said, and watched the rain.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaa ok i know i said it would be a while but i really didn't mean for it to go this long? It's...it's really hard to write Barry Allen realizing that he was kinda in the wrong. But in the bright side y'all now have Barry Allen realizing he was a huge fucking dick, which means next chapter you get reconciliaiton <3


	24. Sorry Is A Sorry Word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > Now you're leaving me in sorrow and your telling me  
>  your sorry but, babe,  
> Sorry is a sorry word after all I've done for you, baby
>>
>>>  

It was raining. Eobard stared outside his windows, and watched it. He’d gone back to his apartment—he wouldn’t let this be the end of him. 

_“You can’t forget him,” Iris had told him. “So you might as well try to go back to normal.”_

Hiding in his parent’s house wasn’t normality. Covering his mirrors wasn’t normality. His face—Harrison Well’s face—it wasn’t so frightening, now. It wasn’t his. It wasn’t right, but—he could grow to know it. He still found himself, sometimes, expecting his hair to be blond or his eyes to be green and found a stranger in his reflection instead, but—he could deal with it. It wasn’t as if Harrison Wells was unattractive. He ran a hand through his hair. No, not unattractive. 

Someone knocked upon his door. He only barely stopped himself from flinching, but he did stop himself. That was fine. He had no reason to flinch; no one would come after him. That much, at least, was clear. He closed his eyes. 

_“You can never forget him,”_ Iris had told him, “ _but that doesn’t mean he should rule your life.”_

He was fine. He walked to the door. It was probably just the girl scouts from next-door again, toting the tagalongs and thin mints that Eobard had been too weak to resist. 

He opened the door. It wasn’t the girl scouts. 

Barry Allen stood in front of him, dripping from the rain and staring at him with sad eyes. 

The world stopped spinning. 

“Eobard, I—um. I just wanted to—” he broke off. He looked exactly the same. That felt strange somehow, knowing that he hadn’t changed at all, and yet here was Eobard, in another man’s skin. “Goddamn it—I’m sorry.”

The universe fell off the rails; reality stopped in between one heartbeat and the next. _I’m sorry._ The words loomed between him, repeated and repeated in an endless loop. _I’m sorry._ No. That wasn’t Barry Allen. _I’m sorry._ Barry Allen didn’t make apologies. He didn’t pretend like he cared about all the destruction he left behind. When the Flash went on a warpath, he never repented. 

Clarity hit him like a freight train: this was not the Flash. This wasn’t even Barry Allen. This was a dream. Barry Allen would never stare at him so tenderly, so repentantly. This was just another self-indulgent plot of his subconscious, trying to find closure. Why else would Barry Allen stare at him with sweet sorrowful eyes, if this wasn’t a dream? Why else would he appear so picturesque and covered in rain, like he was some sort of lead out of a romantic comedy? He still looked so perfect, red lips and pale skin and bright, green eyes, so perfect it must have been a romanticization out of Eobard’s memories. It had to be a dream. 

“Look—can I come in?” Barry said, running a hand through his hair.

Speechless, he moved aside. There wasn’t anything wrong with going along with the dream. It’d hurt when he woke up, of course, but he’d been wanting to live in dreams instead of reality for a while now. It wouldn’t be anything new. 

“I think—I think I understand now. Exactly what I did to you.” He didn’t meet Eobard’s eye. It wasn’t exactly how he’d want this dream to go, but it was more realistic. Barry on his knees begging for forgiveness might have been a pretty sight, but the inauthenticity made Eobard feel slightly ill. “You’re not alright, Eobard. I did that to you. I broke you apart, and I’m sorry for that, though its not like you've been completely blameless either.”

It was at that moment his blood ran cold. None of his other dreams with Barry had mentioned Nora. None of them would have dared. All of his other dreams had been deliriously happy, self indulgent, painless things—he dreamt that Barry wasn’t the Flash. Barry kissed him, and loved him, and everything was a champagne-colored haze. The Barry from his dreams was the one from his memory, a mocking vision of what could have been. If Barry brought up Nora—, 

This wasn’t a dream. “Why are you here, Allen?” He didn’t call him Barry. He didn’t call him Flash.   
“I’m trying to apologize.”

“Don’t mock me—you and I both know you’d never apologize. You never would.” He bit his lip, and refused to look at him. “So, what do you want from me.”

“Is it so hard to believe that I didn't want to hurt you?” Barry, said, with words like siren songs that made Eobard’s heart skip and harden at the same time.

“Yes,” he answered effortlessly. “Yes.”

Barry sighed, and ran a hand over his face. “I’m not heartless, Eobard.”

_I’m not heartless._ He could have laughed. A wild emotion rose in his chest, hysterical and panicked. “You don’t exactly do a good job of showing it.”

“Eobard—“

“What do you want from me, Flash.”

“I’m worried about you.”

“Your worried about me,” he repeated. He must have misheard. “If you’re so _worried_ about me, why didyou— where were you—” Rage trembled beneath his fingertips. 

“Eobard—”

_“I loved you.”_ He said before he could stop himself, before he could remind himself that it was all just a trick. “I loved you with everything I had— and you— you—ruined me.”

“You were going to become my worst enemy,” Barry said. “I didn’t know what to do.”

“I never wanted to be your enemy!” He shot back. “I never—I only ever wanted to be a hero. To be Central’s hero. To be _your_ hero.” The words were sour in his mouth as he spat them out. “You turned me into a villain.You turned the entire world against me. You used me, and you betrayed me.” He couldn’t keep his tone even, not even if he tried. 

“If you had just stopped being the Reverse Flash, I would’ve. I only ever wanted you to be good, Eobard—”

Eobard went suddenly cold. “Is that what this is? Some ploy at making me stop being the Reverse Flash?” 

“What? No, Eobard—I told you, I’m here to apologize.”

“I’m sorry if I find that a little difficult to believe, considering,” he said through gritted teeth. 

“It’s not as if you’re completely blameless, here, either!”

“You don’t know what it did to me, finding out you’re the Flash.” Eobard shook. It felt like poison to admit, but he couldn’t stop. Everything came tumbling out. “Up until that point, I hated the Flash, but I loved you. The Flash had belittled me, but you wouldn’t you never would, you just left me because I wasn’t good enough, and that was fine. But then you were the Flash and that meant that you must have never cared, you just did all of this to toy with me, you ruined my life for the _fun of it_ —I was going to kill you that night. I was. I hated you so much that I wanted to reset the timeline just so I would never have met you.” He trembled. “Yet I couldn’t do it. So instead I decided that you had to hurt like I did. that you had to have something you loved ripped away from you, that your childhood idol had to be destroyed so much it was beyond recognition to you,” he said. “I don’t think you know exactly how much the Flash meant to me, Barry. It was the one thing about my childhood I loved. The one thing. You destroyed that.” His fingernails were biting into his palms. He hadn’t noticed until now. “I’m sorry about your mother. She didn’t deserve that. But you—you—” he couldn't even explain it.

“Eobard—I—” Barry bit at his lip. “I didn’t want to lose you. When I saw that your suit was the Reverse Flash suit—I thought—”

“This started well before then.” He cut Barry off, anger coloring his voice.

“I know.”

“This started when you—”

“Went on air and then ridiculed you, I know, I’m sorry—”

“Then why do it?” He bit out, hands in fists at his sides. “I did nothing to you—I loved you—”

“I wanted you to love me, alright!” Barry burst out, and he was trembling too. “I wanted you to love me and not him. Not the Flash.”

It was absurd to hear. Love Barry and not the Flash? Barry was the Flash, and even then— “I already did.”

“I know,” Barry laughed, but it was more like a sob. “I know.” 

Eobard didn’t look at his face. He shouldn’t. He knew better. Yet a part of him couldn’t help but glance upwards at Barry’s face, towards the tears he angrily pushed away with his damp sleeves. He’d never seen Barry cry before. Not once. 

It didn’t feel like a lie. Then again neither had anything Barry told him, before. He always seemed so genuine, up until he broke Eobard’s heart.

“I’m sorry,” Barry said. “I’m so sorry.”

_That’s not enough,_ he wanted to say, but settled for, “That doesn’t change the past.”

“I know.”

That wasn’t enough. It wasn’t. It wasn’t and it couldn’t be but—

Eobard was so weak. 

He looked away from Barry, and turned to the windows. Outside, the rain had stopped. The sun began to shine out past the clouds. 


	25. Harvest Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > When we were strangers  
> I watched you from afar  
> When we were lovers  
> I loved you with all my heart.
>> 
>> ...
>> 
>> Because I'm still in love with you  
> I want to see you dance again  
> Because I'm still in love with you  
> On this harvest moon
>>
>>> The world didn’t go back to how it used to be. It couldn’t. He wasn’t the same Eobard Thawne who loved Barry Allen and the Flash wholeheartedly. He wasn’t the same man as he was last summer. Yet things changed. Somehow, in some slow kind of way, things changed, and—they may have even changed for the better.

Some things, of course, remained the same: finals came around with the dreary cries of all his undergrads, leaving Eobard with mountains of tests to grade, and three students coming to him in tears begging for extensions. Business as usual, truly. 

“I’m going on sabbatical for summer term,” Alfred said. “Bruce’s dead-set that we spend the entire summer in a cabin up by Lake Superior.”

“You won’t be here?” What? Alfred was notorious for never missing a day on his own volition, let alone going on sabbatical for a semester. 

Whatever. It shouldn’t matter. Eobard didn’t care. What did matter to him what Alfred did with his time? Eobard would finally have the office space all to himself. 

“Once finals are done, Bruce and I are on our way up towards Duluth.” Alfred hummed. “Assuming finals are ever done.” He stared out at the pile of papers before him.

Eobard could relate. He was beginning to dream about drowning in red ink. The next time someone got the basic theory of chronodynamics wrong again, he was going to quit. He swore he would. Oh, what the hell? Albert got the the question on how the time stream related to Newton’sFirst Law of Motion wrong by describing the _law_ incorrectly? The law? That was middle school curriculum. How did he even get into CCU anyway? Jesus Christ.

“I swear to god, Alfred, have they even been listening to my lectures—” He said, still staring at the monstrosity that was this final.

“Oh, hello.” Alfred wasn’t speaking normal, bitter manner. Strange. Eobard glanced upwards.

Barry Allen stood in the door to his office, holding two cups of coffee in his hands. “Hi, Alfred,” he said, and then glanced Eobard’s way. Their eyes met. He wore the same oatmeal colored sweater that made his skin look paler and even softer than it always did. “Hello,” he said, quiet. “I—I saw you earlier and thought you could use some of this. Finals week, and all.” 

“Finals week,” Eobard echoed. “Yeah.”

“Right.” Barry coughed, setting the cup down on Eobard’s desk. “I’ll let you be.” He turned to leave. 

He grabbed Barry’s wrist before he even knew what he was doing. His skin was soft. Dry, but soft. “I—thank you,” he murmured. He let go.

“You’re welcome,” he said, barely more than a whisper. Then he was gone.

He stared at his hand. That was the first time he had touched Barry Allen outside of a fight since…before. It felt different, with Harrison Wells’s hands. Different, but not unpleasant. He closed his eyes and drank his coffee. Alfred’s pointed silence was pointedly ignored. 

Yes, things just might get better after all. 

* * *

 

Eobard didn’t trust him, not completely, he promised himself. If this was a sham, he couldn’t go through that again. Barry Allen was not to be trusted. Not again, he told himself, not again. He would never—could never—trust Barry Allen again. It was just a fact. 

_But if that was true, why does it feel like a lie?_ The white of his ceiling mocked him. He rolled over and tried to sleep. He was stronger than Barry Allen.

He shut his eyes tighter, and dreamt of white roses and summertime. 

* * *

This didn’t mean anything, he promised himself, standing outside of Barry’s office and his heart beating at lightspeed. It didn’t mean anything. It was just repayment for the day before. It didn’t mean anything at all.

His breath caught in his throat as he opened the door. “Thawne,” Barry said, softly, and it sounded wrong. Barry never called him Thawne, not unless he was the Flash. Certainly not so gently as that. 

Not that it mattered, of course. Eobard was only here to give Barry the coffee and leave. That was all. It didn’t matter how Barry addressed him. It didn’t matter at all. What did matter was that Barry was staring at him because he hadn’t said anything yet. “Barry,” he said. 

Barry’s window faced the east. He hadn’t known that. He had never been in Barry’s office before, come to think of it. Yet bright, early summer sunlight flooded through the window all the same.“Did you come here for a reason?” 

“Ah. Yes.” He fumbled with the coffee as he set it on the table. He coughed. “Repayment for yesterday.”

“I see.” Barry turned back to the finale was grading. “Thank you.” 

That was it. Easy. Right. He closed his eyes and turned away. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” Barry murmured.

Civility. There was nothing more to it. He didn’t know why he wished there would be.

* * *

 

Barry Allen was untrustworthy. Eobard knew this. He knew this. And yet. 

He could feel Barry’s eyes on him as if they had a physical weight; he was attuned to Barry’s presence in a room as if he had extraterrestrial senses. His eyes were drawn to him whenever they were in a room together, and—Eobard was dreaming about him again. The kind of dreams that he never wanted to wake up from. 

He was so weak. 

* * *

 

It meant nothing, he reminded himself. It was barely even a truce that they had. He didn’t even trust Barry. He didn’t. 

“That Reverse Flash character hasn’t been on the news in a while,” Alfred said, stirring his tea. “Wonder if he’s plotting something.”

“No,” Eobard said, staring down at his desk. “Something tells me we’ve seen the last of him for a while.”

Someone was knocking at the door. It opened. “Hi—I was wondering if I could see Thawne for a second?” Barry. 

“That’s fine.” He blinked. 

“I was doing some experimental stuff, you know, just personally, and I was wondering if you could help me with this theory…” he trailed off, setting the equation in front of him.

Part of Eobard froze, expecting this to be a test, uncertain as to why Barry would have ever come to him with this. _Experimental stuff, just personally—_ it was for the Flash and Eobard knew it. Just looking down at the notes in front of him was evidence enough of that. 

These notes…were actually quite good? The concept, on how to reduce friction so as to navigate the time stream easier was something out of Eobard’s daydreams. He’d never taken Barry for much of a theoretical chronologer. All of the times the Flash had time traveled had been accidental; Barry had never seemed like he had much more than a passing interest in chronology. Yet. The mathematics were clean, if not quite finished. “I could take a look at this sometime,” he said, tucking the notes away. “if you’re sure.”

“I’d appreciate it,” Barry said, and there was something in his eyes that Eobard just couldn’t quite place. Maybe the sun was hitting them in a strange way. 

“It’s no problem,” Eobard said, and Barry Allen walked away.

The door shut with a click. Eobard could still see him walking away through the frosted glass. 

“So, you and Allen, hm?” Alfred said from the other side of the room. Eobard didn’t look at him, but he could still hear the damn smirk in his voice.

He stiffened. “What’s that supposed to mean, Pennyworth.”

“Oh nothing,” Alfred said. “Just that he’s been coming around an awful lot recently, hasn’t he?”

“Not really.”

“Certainly a lot more than before though,” Alfred said, stirring his tea. “Weren’t you two a thing back in fall?”

“It’s none of your business, Alfred,” Eobard said, scribbling a score on the top of an exam with perhaps a bit too much force. 

“Alright.” Alfred rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say.”

* * *

 

Actually, Barry was a genius. These concepts were nearly revolutionary—if Eobard could just figure out how to work these equations, he could up their max speed by nearly double. It didn’t have to just be for speedsters, either, these had real world applications. If Eobard could manage to work out these equations, Earth could reach further out into the stars than ever thought possible. 

He scribbled out another faulty equation, but he didn’t feel frustrated. It had been so long since he had the chance to do something like this, something that was truly challenging, something that was actually interesting. It was infinitely better than teaching his classes could ever be, and it had been so long since he was actually excited to research again. 

“Professor Thawne, what is your progress on Professor Allen’s speed equation?”  
“Nothing yet,” he muttered, scribbling down another theory. Perhaps if he changed that to cosine…

“If you have not found any discoveries worth noting, perhaps you ought to put it down and get some rest. As your first class is in approximately six hours and thirty-eight minutes, and your current bouts of insomnia leave your time before falling asleep at ninety-two minutes, you are already far below the amount of sleep recommended by the National Sleep Association—”

“Yes, thank you, Gideon,” He grumbled, setting down his pen. Of course. His classes.

“If it helps, Professor, it is the last exam you must proctor.”

It did help. But only a little a little.

* * *

 

It had been days, but still he was nowhere near finding the formula. “You see, I need to find something that will let me counteract the pull of drag—”

“Jesus Christ Thawne, I agreed to walking with you, not listening to your harebrained schemes of physics.” Alfred grumbled. “You know, I thought I’d never have to deal with this after I took my last Gen Ed requirement, twenty years ago—”

“It’s interesting, Alfred,” he continued. “Because there doesn’t seem to be any sort of way to reduce friction while still keeping up a state of stability. However—”

“Oh my god,” Alfred ran a hand down his face, groaning. “I can’t take this.” His eyes searched across the busy hallway. “Hey Allen! Thawne’s got a question for you about your pet project.”

“It’s not just a pet project,” Eobard protested, _again_ , “it has valuable real world applications in space travel and internally as well, if I could only figure out how to reduce the drag coefficient—” he said, and then his body caught up with his mind. Alfred had called over Barry. _Barry_. 

“I didn’t know you were so interested,” Barry said, and something like a smile was tugging at his lips. “You can’t figure out the drag coefficient either?”

“If it remains a fixed interval, then I don’t know how we can find a way to reduce it to a smaller integer, which will completely defeat the purpose—”

“What if we reorganize so that it’s not a coefficient but actually the denominator—”

“That might actually work, you know.” He starts scribbling on his tablet, so caught up in it that it wasn’t until now that he realized how close they were pressed together, how he could feel Barry’s hair tickling at his skin. He stopped, suddenly, and glanced over at Barry. He had frozen too. A silence passed between them, something heavy and strong, and tense. They were still touching. “If you want—” he said, and cut off. Barry Allen’s eyes were the most impossible shade of green. “Perhaps you might come over during break to discuss it more.”

“I would like that.” Barry smiled, if tentatively.

He was so weak. Yet as the May sunlight glinted of of Barry’s hair, he couldn’t bring himself to feel ashamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *collapses, gasping* i did it finally. it only took like...two months and two weeks but i did it. Sorry about that. December was a huge mess and there was just no way I was going to get anything done.


	26. Red Sails In The Sunset

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > Red sails in the sunset, way out on the sea  
> Oh, carry my loved one home safely to me
>> 
>> Swift wings you must borrow  
> Make straight for the shore  
> We marry tomorrow  
> And she goes sailing no more
>>
>>> He had invited Barry over, and yet it still came as a surprise when Barry Allen showed up at his doorstep in the few weeks break between spring semester and summer term. “I came to talk about that project?” he said, fiddling his hands in the pockets of his sweater. It was late May, and yet he still wore a cardigan. Of course. It was probably unreasonably soft, too. All of Barry’s sweaters always were. 

“Of course,” he said, because somehow he remembered the ability to talk. “Yeah. We can.—We can do that.”

Barry shuffled into his apartment. They both didn’t look at each other’s eyes, and yet couldn’t quite look at anything else. He distracted himself with the place where Barry’s collar met his neck, the space right below Barry’s ear. “Nothing’s changed,” Barry said, shutting the door behind him with a click. “Not really.”

“You were just here a few weeks ago.”

“I know,” Barry said, staring out the window. “But I wasn’t really paying attention.” No. Eobard wouldn’t have, either. Then again, he always did have trouble focusing on anything else when Barry Allen was around. All the rest faded into the background. Looking around, he could see how Barry could say everything was the same. There was still the same ambient clutter. His couch still sported the same throw blanket he always used. A few dishes awaited washing in the sink. It was all quaint, all real. Probably just like the faraway time that Barry was last in his apartment, back before everything. 

Barry must have felt somewhat like Eobard did, when he first came back wearing Harrison Wells’s body. 

“No,” Eobard agreed, staring out his windows to avoid looking Barry in the eye. “Nothing has changed.”

Barry looked at him, something indescribable in his eyes, and the sunlight haloing his hair. He looked, almost, as if he was about to say something. His mouth parted ever so slightly—and then he looked away. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind what?”

“Y’know. Showing up here, unannounced.”

“No, I don’t mind at all,” he said. “I invited you here, after all.”

“That you did,” Barry agreed, as if he was reminding himself, and the air lapsed into a heavy sort of silence. What was he thinking about? Was it Eobard? Was it not? Was he as caught up in Eobard’s hands as Eobard was caught up in the movement of Barry’s eyelashes? “Anyway, about that equation,” he said. 

“Of course,” Eobard agreed. He looked away, and focused on math and physics and chronology. 

All thoughts of Barry’s fingers scribbling new ideas, or the soft little gasp he made when he came up with a new theory, were religiously ignored after the fleeting moment when they were conceived. Chronology was a good distraction from Barry, anyway. Eobard had almost forgotten how much he enjoyed the theoretical, or how much he loved struggling to find a solution to a problem. 

The sun outside faded to a red sliver over the river before they even realized anywhere near how much time had passed. 

“It’s already eight thirty,” Barry said, looking at the red sky. “I should probably be going.”

“It can’t be eight thirty yet,” he said, checking the time as though it would magically be hours earlier again. No, it was still eight thirty. “You don’t have to leave.”

Barry shook his head. “No, I should go.” Of course. Eobard was a fool. Yet—Barry continued. “But I can come over again, tomorrow, if that’s alright.”

Something caught in Eobard’s chest. “I’d like that,” Eobard said, and glanced upwards. 

Barry’s eyes, as always, were the perfect shade of spring green.

* * *

Barry showed up again the next day; Eobard wasn’t quite sure why he was surprised by that. Yet Barry Allen stood in the doorway of his apartment again, not-quite smiling, but excitement was in his eyes. “I had some ideas about incorporating warp theory into this, last night,” Barry said.

“I’d love to hear them,” Eobard said, even though his brain told him not to let Barry Allen into his life again. They were already here again, and here they would stay.

The time passed quickly, like it always did. Except this time, after the sunset had long faded into darkness, they still didn’t say a word about leaving. Even as the night crept in and rolled along, Eobard didn’t breathe a word, and Barry didn’t either. The moonless sky laid over them like a heavy velvet blanket, conspicuous in the floor-to-ceiling windows of Eobard’s living room, and the room was silent about it. They talked instead about coefficients and ratios, and even meandered into space travel and literary references, but even as their eyes grew heavy they didn’t talk about the time.

“I’m still not sure about this variable here,” Barry said, pointing at the equation. Eobard leaned over to peer at the document. “I don’t think it should be added to the end.” Their shoulders were pressed against each other. 

“No?” He leaned closer. From this distance, he could smell the faintest trace of Barry’s cologne, and the soft scent of his soap. 

“I think, um,” Barry murmured, staring straight into his eyes. “It should really be a coefficient.”

“You might be right.” He didn’t look back at the equation. He didn’t look away from Barry’s eyes, and he could have sworn he saw starlight there. It was late, his body was heavy with sleep, and Barry Allen’s eyes were green. They were so close, and Eobard was so weak. 

He should have seen this coming, but he didn’t. In fact, he hardly thought of it as at all. It happened like gravity, pulling him closer without any possible explanation why. He felt like he was in a haze, doing without even realizing that he was.

Barry’s skin was soft. That was the first thing he recognized, the glide of his hand on Barry’s clean-shaven cheek. The next was his heartbeat, moving so fast that only he could tell it was more than one heartbeat at all. Then, like a crashing wave of energy, came the realization ofBarry’s lips, trembling underneath his own, just as sweet as he remembered. He lingered there—half frozen in place and half wishing he could freeze time—for a second, a minute, a lifetime, and he wished he had never met Barry Allen in the first place. If he hadn't met him, he understood in that split second, he never would have loved him. In every other universe he always would. 

“I’m sorry,” Eobard whispered when they broke apart, still close enough to feel the warm ghost of Barry’s breath upon his lips. A moment passed, maybe two, and Eobard could hear his shameful heart race. He didn’t dare open his eyes. He didn’t dare look at Barry. 

There were hours caught in this moment, stuck between one second and the next. Barry’s breathing shook when he inhaled. Eobard could feel him shaking—vibrating—underneath him. “Don’t be,” he whispered, barely more than a breath.

“What?”

“I—” Barry cut himself off. He answered, instead, with only a kiss.

* * *

It came back to them quickly, weightlessly, as if nothing had ever changed. It was easy, between them. It was always so easy. These days fell into a sunlit breeze of hands touching, smiles caught between classes. He felt so young. It felt so easy. It shouldn’t have, not with everything, and yet, and yet—

They both were so tired of anything else. Coexisting was easy in comparison. It wasn’t even like the early days, when he second guessed every word he said, and every interaction was as terrifying as it was thrilling. They knew each other, now. For better or for worse. It was easy. It was good.

June came around with kisses in the air. 

* * *

"I want it to be different, between us. Something new. Something without all of the bad memories," Barry murmured, burrowing into Eobard's arms. "I can't—we can't go back to the way things were." 

Something stirred in the back of Eobard's mind, a long forgotten memory of a dream. "Star Labs," he said. 

"What?"

"I always wanted to open up a lab of my own, and name it after Star Labs," he explained. "We could go on sabbatical, start it up. There would be no bad memories whatsoever, just new ones."

"Star Labs," Barry said, as if tasting out the word. "We could do that."

* * *

 They were married in June the next year, in blinding, drowsy, sunshiny heat, the kind that makes everything seem like a pleasant dream. It wasn’t, but Barry Thawne kissed him, and Eobard thought perhaps, life could be a dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it it's done oh my god it's finally done

**Author's Note:**

> Listen to the playlist! :)  
> http://8tracks.com/likerosesinbloom/why-do-you-build-me-up-just-to-let-me-down


End file.
